


One as Meaningful

by lesshoney



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Body Dysphoria, M/M, Mpreg, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesshoney/pseuds/lesshoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's about mind, body, and the primacy of love. Mostly. Written for the DA kinkmeme.</p><p>Warnings, to reiterate: Mpreg. The story also includes body dysphoria and non-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Year Five (9:35), Second Month (Guardian)

Hawke came to on a thin straw mattress beside a damp, mossy wall. He pushed himself up and took stock. A cell. In a cave. In the adjoining cell he saw Anders. He was sitting with his back against the wall. His eyes were closed.

Hawke tested his body for broken bones. He felt woozy but everything seemed in working order. Whatever magic the mages had hit him with, he seemed none the worse for wear.

“Anders,” he called softly.

No reply.

“Anders.”

Anders looked at him like he didn’t recognize him. Maybe it wasn’t Anders, maybe it was Justice. Vengeance. But it looked like Anders. They were his sharp, amber eyes looking back at Hawke, not glowing orbs of blue light. Small details.

“Are you all right?” Hawke asked.

A long pause, then Anders nodded.

Hawke nodded back. “Good. Where are we? These blighted caves all look the same. Let’s see if we can get out of here.”

It was easy, as it turned out. Aveline, a host of guardsmen, Varric, and a crew that could fairly be described as “motley” burst in soon after. When the Champion of Kirkwall (and his live-in “generally understood to be screwing him silly” partner) went missing, it was a not-insignificant deal. With the entirety of the Guard and Varric’s many and nebulous connections seeking them out, it didn’t take long to find a trail to some caves on the Wounded Coast. Aveline and Varric were well-acquainted with the slaying of shades by this time, and rescuing them was a simple enough matter.

The difficulties came later.

Third Month (Drakonis)

Darktown was never quiet. There was always shouting, or the scrabbling of rats or beggar children, the groans of patients, the sounds of water dripping and effluvium slopping through the sewer ditches. Despite all of this, Anders slept.

His dreams, however, were no more pleasant. He was back in the caves. He was on a table. Naked. Spread-eagle. Something soft beneath his hips, tilting his private parts, baring him to his captors. He was pinned by invisible bonds. Magical iron, not quite in this world, forged from blood magic. He was gagged as well, with well-orchestrated paralysis. He could make no sound. His vocal cords were cold and tingling, suspended, even as his lungs, lips, and tongue continued to work.

There were mages wearing deep hoods. He could hear them doing something to a woman, hear her screams suddenly grow more shrill as the knife came out. They dragged her to him. Her body fell across him, her head tipped back gruesomely, her throat had been slashed and it gaped open. Rivulets of her blood ran down his body, and he lapsed and let Justice come to the fore to fight. Justice writhed but the magic held tight. The mages started again, and suddenly the blood sliding down his body caught fire. Not oxidation, but magic, burning near his skin yet not charring his flesh.

Two of the mages came forward. Their hands plunged into the flames that engulfed the woman and Anders, and Anders tried to scream as he felt hands in his insides, pushing and pulling nerves he hadn’t known he possessed. Something sunk into him. Something new, warm, still pulsing, oddly heavy in his innards. His heart was thudding against his ribcage so hard it would surely bruise, and Justice was roaring in Anders’s mind.

The woman’s body was pulled away, tipped off the table and to the floor like so much refuse. The blood on his body was still aflame, and the work wasn’t yet done. The mage moved his fingers like an artist, drawing his hand along Anders’s shaft, and Anders felt the whisperings of lust and arousal. Maker, what was he doing? Anders fought, Justice fought, but there was power here acting against his best defenses, and as the mage stroked him Anders felt his body tremble, tense, pulse, and release.

An incantation over the spilled seed, which was thrust into the flames dancing on his body. Two points of warmth sprang to life between his hip bones and Anders tried to twist and escape from the feeling inside.

“Make him clean.” The order was tersely given. Two more mages approached with jars and poured cold, clear water over him. The blood and flames ran off of his skin and died away. The water rinsed all sensation from his body, leaving it as numbed as his throat.

“Bring the Champion.”

Hawke? Anders craned his neck. He would have given anything for the strength to free himself, rise up and protect his lover, but it didn’t come. He was helpless in the invisible bonds.

The mages were walking beside Hawke, who moved with an odd, shuffling, forward-falling motion, like a badly-strung puppet. He was stripped of his plate mail, revealing his plain undershirt and breeches. His eyes were open, but unknowing. What had they done to him?

“Your mate, he fought hard,” the mage congratulated Anders. It was the first time Anders had been directly addressed. His whole body shuddered.

“Now he deserves a reward.” The mage turned to Hawke. “Open your buttons.”

Hawke obeyed.

“Now have him. The way you would a woman. You’ll find him ready.”

Anders’s eyes were wide with terror as Hawke- if this was Hawke, not some abomination given his face and form- crawled with jerking motions onto the end of the table, between Anders’s spread legs. He perched there like something inhuman. His member was in his hand, erect and dusky. Anders threw his body back and forth, desperately, willing to rip his arms from their sockets to escape what was to come. He would rather tear himself to pieces than this. He was stuck fast, open to this thing that was not his lover. _Stop_ , his eyes pleaded, hoping Hawke was still somewhere in there. Hoping Hawke would see him, regain himself, realize what he was doing. _Stop_.

But there was no spark in Hawke’s eyes. He leaned forward over Anders, guided himself, and suddenly Anders felt something big and hard forcing into body. Hawke was in him. How? He wasn’t- they hadn’t- the position was wrong. Anders didn’t, couldn’t understand.

He could barely think. Hawke was leaning over him, braced on his arms, and was moving his hips in uncoordinated jerks, still staring at Anders unblinkingly, no expression on his face. Anders felt tears coursing from the corners of his eyes, even as his body was so much cold, dead weight, his mind was folding in horror, aware but disbelieving. Anders looked away from Hawke; it wasn’t Hawke doing this to him. His eyes landed on the mage in the hood who stood nearby. He was the one, it was him that Anders should hate. Not the man inside of him. Not his lover. This was no act of love.

Hawke’s pace quickened, he surged forward, and then his body became completely motionless, still inside of Anders’s body.

The mage looked on them dispassionately. Now that Hawke had completed himself, the mage gave him more orders: “Go. Clean yourself and get dressed.”

Hawke slid out and backed off the table. Anders couldn’t look at him. His stomach heaved, but his throat was immobile and no sick came up. A full-bodied revulsion, the urge to crawl away and hide came over him. He wanted to tear all of his skin off.

“As for you, grey being, your journey has begun.”

Anders was still crying.

They carried him to the cell, naked, and laid him on a pallet. The spell was wearing off slowly. Anders lay still for a very long time before he could bring himself to move. He wanted to sink into the floor and disappear, but Justice was urging him to get up, take some action. Set in motion vengeance against these abominations. Anders managed to sit up.

Hawke was in the cell next door, visible through the bars set into the sloping stone walls of the cave. He had his armor on again and seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Anders's robes were folded with perverse neatness and care on a nearby table. Anders struggled into his clothes. Still that heaviness in his belly. He sat huddled against the wall and watched Hawke’s body breathe.

* * *

Anders woke up cold and sweaty, his heart racing in his chest. For an instant he tried to tell himself it had been a nightmare, just a nightmare, but reality crashed down. He was … wet. Between his legs. Some perverse reaction when his dreaming mind had envisioned Hawke above him. He hated this new part. It was like a gaping, weeping wound that wouldn’t heal, and he despised every twinge and every warm seep of moisture. He tried to gag it with folded cloth, tried to ignore the new smell of his body when he undressed after a long, sweaty day, tried to ignore the new sense of weight below his navel. When Justice had come into him, he had been willing and prepared for adjustment. Now he felt disgusting. He hated himself, didn’t want to touch his body, didn’t want to be in his own skin.

He hadn’t been near Hawke since the attack. He feared what Hawke would say or do. A twice-over abomination, that was what he was. Justice -- or was it Vengeance -- was still muttering about revenge, but his voice wasn’t a comfort. Anders had been alone.

Perhaps if this physical change was the only repercussion of the ritual, he could have come to terms with it, gone into the lore and found a reversal. It would have taken time and perhaps much travel. If only it had been that simple. ( _Of course -- simple_! said the old Anders, the blithe and sarcastic one who wore an earring and hadn’t had most of the joy and sanity choked out of his life. _What could be simpler?_ )

Anders had had the presence of mind to grab some scrolls when they had been rescued, and had spent the last few weeks translating them and interpreting them. He had come to the end of them last night, and realized with horror that the ritual had a purpose beyond making him some chimerical abomination. It was filthy blood magic, an affront to the natural order, to the sanctity of life and its creation. The recurring talk of vessels, gateways - they had been referring to _him_. They had intended to make him with child.

He had slept from sheer exhaustion, but he couldn’t sleep any more after his nightmare recounting. He began the day’s duties, seeing to patients, ducking back to be discretely ill (it was easy enough to blame food poisoning in this hellhole), and the day wore on. He had to act on what he had learned last night. He had to know whether they had succeeded or failed.

Anders retreated to his comparatively quiet corner of the clinic. Being alone wasn’t easy, with patients to care for and volunteer staff in and out to prepare mixtures. He quickly grabbed a few fingerfuls of various substances from his stores. A sprinkle of finely-crushed crystal to tune the solution, and then he took a small, clean square of cloth. He looked around. His small, curtained-off workspace was as private as it was going to get. He quickly undid his belt and moved his shirt aside, then ran the cloth between his legs, collecting some of the moisture that gathered there. He dropped the cloth into the bowl. His hands shook a little.

The solution soaked into the cloth. It glowed. __

_Maker’s shitting mabari._

He had just fixed his clothing when one of the assistants drew aside the curtain. “Anders, the Champion’s coming. I thought you may want warning, so you can fix your hair.” She smirked.

Anders was too busy trying to keep himself between her and the bowl on the table to notice the dig. “Thank you. Thank you, Tessa.”

“No excuses this time?” she asked knowingly.

They all knew that Anders had been avoiding Hawke. He couldn’t think of an excuse at the moment, however, he was too busy feeling like the ground was dropping out from under his feet. “Uh, no.”

She shrugged, let the curtain fall back, and Anders immediately tipped the bowl into the drainage opening set low into the wall. Right down to the sewers. He could barely think. He tried to pull himself together.

Hawke arrived. Whenever he and the Champion were together, Anders felt like all eyes were on him. Most of them were sick voyeurs, hoping he would transform into an abomination then and there. He hated it. It didn’t _infuriate_ him the way the Templars’ scrutiny did, but it made his life more irritating than it once was. He thought less kindly of his fellow men than he once had. His temper was short.

Hawke had brought Anders a small parcel of food. Solid fare: bread, cheese, and dried meat. He was never sure Anders was getting meals, unless he took them at the estate. As he hadn’t been to the mansion in over a month, Hawke was relieved to see that he wasn’t wasting away.

Relieved that he seemed in fair health, yes, but confused (and more angry by the day) that Anders had all but ejected himself from Hawke’s life.

That was the issue foremost in his mind. Hawke had his own suspicions and fears, because no one’s thoughts could rest easy in the face of their lover all but disappearing. When Anders, fighting a bit of queasiness, had stowed the food away and turned back to him, Hawke decided to broach the subject gently but directly. “Anders, is there anything I should know?”

Anders bit the inside of his cheek. He felt unsteady. There were too many matters to think on without someone he loved dearly complicating things. He was a little afraid of Hawke, too. Why didn’t Hawke leave him alone? Why did he wear that stupid, shining plate everywhere, so that everyone stared at them? It made Anders felt exposed, on display. He turned away from Hawke and started to arrange things on the herb bench. Jars. Bowls. Books. Mortal and pestle. He couldn’t look at Hawke and maintain the lie. “No.”

Hawke’s eyes followed Anders’s nervous motions. He tried to press on, still gentle, but not happy at such a chilly reception. “I know the clinic is busy in wintersend. I understand that it’s easier for you to sleep here. But… I’ve not seen you in weeks. Why haven’t you come?”

“To your drafty estate? The season is still cold, Garrett.”

Their home. His family’s home. The house his mother had been so proud of. _Drafty._ Hawke let himself rise to the bait and shot back, “You prefer living down here in the muck?”

“Around here, no one asks too many questions,” Anders said pointedly.

Hawke frowned. Fine. When Anders chose to keep a secret, nothing could drag it from him, and now Hawke’s own anger was brimming. Best to leave before he said something he would forever regret. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thank you.” Anders’s voice was curt. He turned his back to Hawke and opened a book of herbalism. He stared hard at the book and listened to Hawke’s heavy, booted footsteps leaving the clinic.

* * *

Another feeble dawn in Darktown. Anders woke up hard. Not unusual in times past, but since the ritual he had been worried that he was less a man, that he might no longer function. His hand beneath the covers felt the reassuring hardness that was him, and tried to ignore the empty softness that so distinctly wasn’t. He ran his hand along his shaft, his fingers circled around it and providing gentle pressure. He had been dreaming of Hawke. Properly, this time. Hawke on his knees in front of him, using his mouth. Then, like a wave rolling inexorably in to shore, the pleasantness of the dream and comfortable ache were banished as nausea seized his stomach. Just in case he was tempted to forget, Anders reflected wryly. Then a more forceful thought: _enough of this_. He was a healer, he knew full well that there were ways to get a woman... a person... out of trouble. He had most of the ingredients right here in the clinic. The rest could be found just a short hike outside the city’s walls.

It was as if a beam of sun broke through the clouds. He even managed to smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Same as previous chapters.

Three days later, after dinner, Hawke was reading by candlelight when Bodahn knocked on his bedroom door and announced that Messere Anders had arrived.

Hawke put his book aside. Time for round two, he supposed. Maybe tonight he could get to the bottom of whatever Anders’s problem was. “Where is he?”

“He’s just... stepped to the lav.” Bodahn cleared his throat in slight embarrassment. He was a very prim and proper dwarf. “I thought you’d be wanting to know he was here.”

“Thank you, Bodahn. Are you and Sandal off to the pub?”

“That we are, sir. A ship’s just docked, that means new faces and new stories. Sandal loves to hear them.”

Bodahn took his leave.

Anders passed the dwarf on the stairs, slowly ascending to the landing to confront Hawke. He had been crying and his eyes were still red.

Round two wasn’t kicking off as Hawke had expected. Concern replaced irritation and he forgot all about the words they had exchanged the last time they met. “Anders? What’s the matter?”

Anders looked around the landing, then out the windows at the rooftops and lit windows. Too many people out there, anyone could be looking in. He nodded to Hawke’s bedroom door. “Can we talk?”

“Of course we can talk. Are you all right? It’s not the templars, is it?”

“No. Not the templars.”

Hawke and Anders moved into the bedroom. Dog, the descriptively-named mabari hound, was lounging in front of the fireplace. He put his head up and looked at the two men.

Hawke asked again, “What is going on?”

Anders looked at Dog. “Go away.”

The mabari ducked his head and whined at Hawke. Hawke looked at Anders closely. “This must really be private.”

“I didn’t come here to be a figure of fun for your dog.”

Looking confused, Hawke turned to Dog. “Go on, boy. Go look for rats in the cellar.”

Dog dutifully got to his four feet and bounded away.

“Now we’re alone. Well and truly. Talk to me, Anders.”

Anders was looking at the fire roaring in the hearth. “Have you ever thought of starting a family?”

“I have a family,” Hawke said. His uncle, even if he didn’t like him much, his sister, though she was far away...

And all of the sarcastic remarks lined up, got jumbled, and left Anders simply staring, his eyebrows peaked in disbelief.

The bit finally dropped. “Oh. _Right_.” Hawke shrugged. “No. I don’t think my tastes are very conducive to it.”

Anders angled, “What if they were.”

“If I wake up fancying a woman tomorrow, I’ll let you know,” Hawke said reassuringly. “Nothing wrong with girls,” he added quickly, “It’s just they don’t hold a flame to you.”

Anders winced and Hawke suddenly had a flare of suspicion. Perhaps Anders had been avoiding him because he had been _untrue_. The thought was painful, but the sudden distance Anders had put between them, and now, apparently, his guilt, would make sense. Maybe Anders had gotten some young lady into trouble. Hawke felt himself tensing, preparing himself, if a blow as about to fall.

Anders was still stumbling on, unsure what to say. “What if you didn’t need - what if - what if when an apostate abomination and a clueless berk love each other very much and some blood mages decide to toy with lives in ways they have no right to -”

“What?” Hawke could hear the hopeless anger in Anders’s voice.

“The caves. The blood mages, the...”

Hawke had been hit by magic and didn’t remember much but waking in that cell. He was losing patience with these roundabout words. “Make sense, Anders. What did they do to you?”

“To us. You don’t remember. You were asleep.” Anders looked away. “Their little ritual. You came to me during it, they made you. You... you used me.”

“I what?” Then Hawke realized. Maker’s blood, no wonder Anders had been avoiding him. “Anders, I’m so sorry.”

Anders had his arms crossed protectively. “I know you don’t remember what went on. I just... when I thought back on it, I wondered if...”

“You wondered if I’d attacked you, and was pretending that nothing had happened? _Maker_.” Hawke looked horrified.

There was relief in Anders, but it was a faint silver lining, blocked out by the terrible realities he still had to face. “Before they brought you to me - Maker, no.” Anders couldn’t tell him this. No rational mind would believe him. He scarcely believed it himself. “Garrett, I have to leave. I’m sorry.” Anders moved toward the door.

“Anders, this is insane. Tell me what’s happened. Whatever it is, I’ll help you.”

Hawke followed, grabbed his arm, and Anders rounded on him, protective sparks of magic suddenly shimmering around him. “Don’t touch me.”

Hawke immediately released him and stepped back. He had forgotten himself, the issue between them. “I’m sorry.”

Anders’s heart was pounding. He tried to talk himself down. Garrett hadn’t known, he didn’t remember any of it. It wasn’t his fault. Anders softened, though he wasn’t conciliatory. “You can’t help me. This is profound magic, something so ancient and so deep that I can’t get my head around it.”

“What is? You come to my door in tears, you tell me I’ve... I’ve raped you, and now you’re leaving? Anders, I believe you. I believe that I hurt you. Please, let’s talk about it. I won’t touch you, you have my word. Just, please, don’t run away from me now.”

Anders didn’t want to deal with Hawke’s confusion and fear at that moment, he was so full of his own. He just wanted to shut Garrett up. “There was a little more to the ritual than that. I’m … oh, Maker.” Just get it over with. See his disgust. Get tossed out of his house. “I’m pregnant.”

That worked. Hawke shut up. Hawke searched his eyes for a long moment, incredulous. Anders stared back defiantly.

“What sort of joke -” Hawke’s face was a mask of bafflement and - yes - fear. Anders’s heart sank.

“It’s not a joke.” Anders sounded like a man who was suddenly in a good deal of pain.

Hawke’s eyes were full of that tense, wary look people adopt with the dangerous and disturbed. “Anders, have you gone mad?”

Anders gave a short, hollow note of laughter. “I’d prefer that.”

Logic, refuge against what felt like insanity. “You’re a Grey Warden,” Hawke said. “I thought they -”

“I like how _that’s_ the first objection you raise.” Anders was smiling without humor.

Hawke hadn’t overlooked the more obvious aspect. “I’ve never heard of even _blood magic_ powerful enough to... make a man...” No, he couldn’t quite say the word.

“You don’t read the right books.” Anders put his hands up. “No, let’s be fair, it isn’t in many books, either. Not even the really ancient, dusty ones they keep at the bottom of labyrinthine tombs.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Hawke began. “But -”

Anders interrupted, “It’s not that you don’t believe me... but you don’t. All right. I don’t care. I was mistaken to come here, and now I’m leaving.” He moved toward the bedroom door.

“Where will you go?”

Anders shook his head mutely. He was near the door, ready to bolt. Hawke wouldn’t hold him against his will, but if he could just keep Anders talking, this would pass. he was sure of it. He took a small step forward, trying to look understanding, worried, and much less frightened than he felt.

“Let’s say I _do_ believe you.”

“You don’t.”

“You can’t run off. In your state -”

“I’m not in a ‘state’,” Anders snapped.

“Where would you go? Darktown? Back to Ferelden? The wilds? Someplace crawling with darkspawn remnants?”

Anders shrugged his shoulders and straightened his jacket. “I can take care of myself.”

“At the moment. What about a few months from now?”

“I don’t intend for it to be a problem a few months from now.”

Hawke didn’t know what to make of any of this. He still thought Anders might be putting him on, he was ready to laugh with him over a stupid joke, but the seriousness in Anders’s voice and eyes was too much. It was mad, insane, but Anders seemed to believe what he was saying. Hawke didn’t doubt that there had been a ritual, that _something_ had been done to him, but this...

Yet Hawke trusted Anders, at the bottom of it all. And magic was powerful. But _why_? He shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would they do this?”

“Sick minds twisted by sick magicks. I don’t know. I doubt we’ll ever find out. I’ve translated those scrolls. They’re full of mad gibbering about prophecies and - I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to me,” Hawke said.

“I’ll take care of it. I’m sorry I told you. I didn’t mean to.” _I was just scared and lonely and you love me, and I just want you to hold me._ He couldn’t face another day trapped in his own head and every thought in chaos.

A new thought had come to Hawke, with a renewed sense of guilt. “Anders, if they used me in the ritual... is it mine?”

This was a point on which Anders was fairly certain. Why else would they have brought Garrett to him, all of his senses dead, cold as a golem? That was not his lover, that was a puppet, a strong mannequin who had forced his way into Anders’s body and made the ritual complete. The man who had been there when the child was conceived hadn’t been Garrett, just meat. Yet... the same form, the same seed.

“I think so,” Anders admitted.

Hawke’s hands were aching to reach out to him. “Then I’m responsible, aren’t I? It’s my job to care for you.”

“You don't even believe me,” Anders said. He could still feel Hawke’s incredulity.

Hawke rubbed his temple with the base of his palm. He believed several things: one, he loved Anders. Two, he gave help whenever it was needed, and Anders clearly needed it. “I don’t know what to believe. I don’t care, either. Whatever is going on, we’ll face it together.”

Really, there was nothing Anders wanted more. He didn’t want to go on alone. He could almost live with Garrett thinking he was unhinged. If there were a few hundred miles between them, maybe Anders would have the strength to deal with this by himself, but not when Hawke was right in front of him, offering refuge and comfort. He suddenly moved forward and put his arms around Hawke’s body. He felt Hawke slowly and very carefully return the embrace.

This one with the living eyes was his lover, the other was a nightmare wrought by bad magic. This one helped banish the other.

Anders was trembling, and Hawke frowned. “Whatever’s happened, Anders...”

“Hold me like this. Just for a minute,” Anders said shakily. He had been crying more in the last month than the last ten years of his life combined. His throat felt tight again, his eyes were stinging. Bloody mood swings. Apparently he wasn’t going to be spared a single one of Mother Nature’s cruel tricks.

“I’ve got you.”

Before his bravery failed, Anders put his forehead against Hawke’s. “I’ll show you what they did to me.”

Anders disrobed slowly in front of the fire. Hawke watched him, immediately erect and yearning for him. It had been too long. He watched with pensiveness and curiosity, too. Anders’s body looked like it always did. The hard planes of his shoulders, the flat board of his stomach, and the trail of dark hair from his navel to his groin, his sex amid the dark curls. No discernible difference to Hawke’s eyes. When he twisted to put his robes on the chair Hawke thought he might be … softer, around the middle, but it was difficult to tell. Hawke could do basic maths, and he realized Anders would be in his sixth week. Was that too early for changes? Hawke didn’t know anything about pregnant bodies. Then he looked away, feeling foolish.

Anders joined him on the bed. He steeled himself, took Hawke’s hand in his, and brought him to the difference. Anders flinched when Hawke’s fingertips found the new opening, and Hawke pulled his hand back as if he’d touched a flame.

“Maker’s blood,” Hawke said. He looked up at Anders, eyes wide.

Anders drew his legs together and crossed his arms miserably. “What should I do?”

Hawke had no answer for that. His head was spinning. No answers, but he did have his characteristic, automatic impulse to be brave and reassuring. “Anders, it -”

“Don’t say ‘it doesn’t matter.’ It does.”

Hawke put one of his hands to Anders’s face. That was definitely Anders, the body he knew. His stark jaw and the scruff of beard against Hawke’s palm. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s just... wrong. It feels wrong.” Anders had a look of utter distaste on his face. “It’s awful. But it doesn’t hurt.”

“Who can help you?”

“I don’t know.” Anders thought about the journey through the dark back to his clinic, and the thin blankets and uncomfortable cot that waited there. “Is it all right if I stay here tonight?”

“This is your home.” Hawke’s eyes traveled down Anders’s body. Be brave. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“It hasn’t hit you yet,” Anders said with a small, tired smile. “Give it a bit. You’ll be kicking the freak out of your bed in no time.”

Hawke tried to smile. Failed. They stared at each other. Where the heat would usually roar up between them, there was only stillness. Anders was very tired, and the sense of unbalance and anxiety quieted Hawke’s body. They didn’t know what to make of each other for a long, awkward moment. Then Hawke drew back the blankets and offered his arms to Anders, who gratefully slid into them.

He smelled different to Hawke’s nose. More than the dramatic physical shock, that small fact impressed on Hawke that some change had been wrought.

They talked more candidly beneath the blankets. Anders explained the ritual, the innocent, screaming girl, the blood and being consumed in fire, and that Justice had tried to break them both free of their bonds - to no avail.

“Justice was the focal point they needed. Some of the Fade, here. And a ‘grey being’, a Warden, they decided. As prophesied by some lyrium-addled lunatic. I think they expected it to be a woman. They didn’t let that stop them. You know how cults of madmen get when they’re trying to breed their god-kings.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not.” Anders’s voice was quiet. “It was humiliating, having to do the women’s ritual to make sure. And I am sure.” His eyes met Hawke’s.

Hawke met his gaze. He nodded slowly.

The room was dark as the fire died down. Anders was holding Hawke tightly, trying to bury the loneliness of the last few weeks. Hawke thought of him alone in Darktown, scared out of his mind. Hawke’s hands traced the groove of Anders’s spine comfortingly.

“You said you would ‘take care of it’. How?”

“It’s easy. Two parts of this, another of that. Any healer worth their salt knows it.” Anders paused, troubled. “I’ve had the potion mixed for a few days but … something stayed my hand.” He shifted to get a better look at Hawke’s face. “Listen to me. Please don’t think I’m mad.”

Hawke’s hand was in Anders’s hair now, at the nape of his neck. “I don’t.”

 _You do._ But Anders went on, even in the face of his partner’s disbelief. “I … sensed it. The tiniest, most delicate little spark. And I couldn’t sense any taint or darkness.”

“You can feel it already? The…” Hawke couldn’t quite make himself say “baby”.

“Sense, not feel. It’s hard to explain to a non-mage. Garrett, if it’s free of all corruption... an innocent little being...” Anders looked at him questioningly, his brown eyes wide and seeking. _What do I do_?

Hawke didn’t know which end was up at the moment, but he tried to offer something more than a scared laugh: “Bearing a child can’t be easy.”

“Not easy. No.” Anders still had an odd look. Undecided, but deeply thoughtful. His eyebrows were drawn together. “Garrett, if I don’t... do away with it.”

Hawke squeezed him. Anders was too tired and confused to come to any decision that night, but Hawke’s strength and support made him feel as if he could do anything. Anything at all. Even this.

  
Hawke woke to hear Anders being sick in the chamber pot. He rolled over, saw Anders bent over its mouth, taking hissing breaths through his teeth, one hand trying to hold his hair back. Hawke got up to help. His strong fingers drew the blond strands back from Anders’s face and skillfully secured the hairband. Anders smiled briefly. “Sorry.” Then he closed his eyes and hunched over the basin again.

Hawke’s steady hand rubbed between his shoulder blades. He hadn’t eaten anything, he was just retching dryly, occasionally bringing up some bile.

“Last few days,” Anders explained, when he could speak. “Really wretched. Seems morning, noontime, and night. All of the old wives’ tales about ‘ _morning_ ill’... don’t believe them.”

“Would some tea help?” Hawke was still kneeling on the floor beside him.

Anders shrugged. He knew home remedies, particular roots, but the stocks in his clinic were out and the past day or so hadn’t felt up to making the trek outside the city. How did women deal with this constant, infernal…

“I’ll get you some water, anyroad.” Hawke went to the dressing stand, poured, and brought back a cup. Anders rinsed his mouth quickly. He returned to the bed, with Hawke hovering.

“I’ll tell Bodahn not to put any food on, anything that smells. Can you have something cold?”

“Stop fussing.” Anders waved him away. “I just want to go back to sleep. I have a score of patients to see today.”

“You’re not working too hard, are you? You’re taking care of yourself?” Hawke asked.

“Of course. Let me sleep.”

Hawke paced around the room for a moment, feeling giddy. It was... true. It was true. He looked at Anders, who was curled up again under the covers. Anders, Justice... and someone else. He suddenly grinned. The idea was terrifying. This wasn’t normal, natural, but at the same time something clicked and it felt _right_. He had never given thought to children before, but after his brother had been taken, his sister forced to depart, his mother... the frail bodies that were part of him, all falling away, suddenly he realized that a child, a new beginning, was something he would cherish.

“Did it hit you?” Anders asked. He was watching Hawke warily.

“I think so.”

“Would you like to make yourself useful?”

“Tell me what you need.”

Anders smiled. Such easy assurance. Hawke had the power to make anyone feel safe, like it was all being _handled_ , in so few words. “I’ll write down what I need.” Things to settle his stomach, for one. A few more things that were running low at the clinic. A few things he could buy from the herbalists, a few things they didn’t usually stock. He rummaged in the drawer for pen and parchment and wrote out the various ingredients.


	3. Chapter 3

Anders didn’t talk much about his condition for the next few weeks. He didn’t spend many nights at the estate, either, and when he did, it was in an exhausted heap on the other side of the bed. He got sick in the mornings, ate a light breakfast, lost it into a basin, and went to his clinic by sheer force of will. He got thinner. Hawke worried constantly. They didn’t touch each other unless Anders began weeping, which, to be fair, seemed to happen every time they were together.

Anders also seemed to have forgotten all about needs. Frustrating for Hawke, who some nights wanted nothing more than to bend him over and have him, but at the same time Hawke understood. Or, not exactly _understood_ , but sympathized. Watching the shipwreck that was Anders’s mental and physical state those few weeks kept his own longings under control, and kept his heart hurting for him.

Until, now twelve weeks in and finally feeling more like his old self, Anders finally put himself in Hawke’s hands. Hawke had been at another tiresome nobleman’s tiresome party, and the moment he returned Anders all but threw himself into Hawke’s arms, pushed him back against the front door that was scarcely closed, and kissed him.

Hawke caught fire immediately, because Maker, it had been too long. He grasped Anders’s hips and pulled his body close. Hawke was pushing back against Anders’s mouth and his only thought was _too many clothes_. He got his hands inside Anders’s robe at his shoulders and would have started undressing him right there, but Anders reminded him “You’ll scare the servants.” Hawke huffed like a frustrated bear, made as if to pick him up and sweep him to the bedroom. Then he changed his mind and grabbed Anders’s hand and started pulling him along.

Anders laughed and followed him across the entryway and main hall and up the stone stairs. Sandal watched them go past with his blank look. Two grown men half-intertwined, giggling, lost in their own little world. The bedroom door closed with a thud.

Once inside, Hawke grabbed for Anders again and backed him to the bed, kissing, excited, feeling Anders’s answering excitement through his robes, which Hawke peeled off of him. Anders helped pull Hawke’s soft shirt off over his head and the waistband down his hips, and Hawke worked at Anders’s boots. Then they were naked, Anders lying on the bed and Hawke on his side next to him, and Hawke stopped to take in Anders’s body.

Three months of pregnancy had changed him. He was clean-shaven, as his beard wasn’t growing in as evenly as it used to. He seemed a little softer around the edges, as though he had put on a few discrete pounds. Barely enough to register in the normal course of things, if the slightest changes weren’t being sought and scrutinized. His stomach below his navel was a gentle swell, out of place against the rest of his toned abdomen, where his muscles were visibly fluttering as he breathed.

Another area that had changed was his chest. Darker nipples, finer chest hair, and definitely a bit more developed than the flat pectorals Hawke was used to. Not striking, just... softer.

Anders let Hawke’s eyes and hands run over him. He’d been obsessing over every change with varying degrees of dislike and then something like acceptance; now his partner was getting his turn.

“What do you think?” Anders asked finally.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

“Is that code for ‘fat cow’?”

“You look...” Like I want to bury myself in you and _have_ every part of you. “Wonderful. Honestly.”

The hungry look in Hawke’s eyes, the fullness and the acute angle of his member convinced Anders, and he felt the lingering awkwardness and embarrassment receding. Of course, it remained to be seen, a few months from now... “Early days yet,” Anders reminded.

A small, fond shake of Hawke’s head as he leaned in close. Anders put his arms around him.

Anders let Hawke kiss him, and made himself relax under the feeling of the tip of Hawke’s tongue delicately tracing the seam of his lips. The bristle of Hawke’s dark beard along Anders’s jaw, brushing down his neck to the hollow of his throat. Anders felt the muscles working in Hawke’s back and shoulders as he licked and gummed along Anders’s neck and back up to his mouth, pressing kisses around the corners of his lips.

Anders kept talking. He was still nervous. “I’m sure they’re laughing behind their hands at how _tubby_ their healer is getting. I’m sure they think being a kept man suits me.”

“You’re not a kept man.” Hawke brushed his thumbs across Anders’s clavicles, which were still stark bows under his white skin. “And you’re certainly not getting ‘tubby’.”

“Leave my chest. It’s sore.” Anders hated saying it.

Hawke smiled sympathetically. “You poor thing.”

“Don’t talk to me like a mabari pup.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Everything okay?” Hawke could feel the tension still in Anders.

“Fine. I need this. I just...”

Hawke was close, smelling familiar, kissing him in the familiar, strong way. His tongue tickled behind Anders’s ear, that spot that made him flush and his stomach wind up. Anders breathed in gratefully.

“Tell me if I should stop,” Hawke said.

“Don’t you dare.”

Hawke’s hand ran down the groove of Anders’s abdominal muscles, to his navel, and lay against the petite bump for just a moment, before moving again and taking Anders in hand. Anders closed his eyes briefly, feeling the familiar pull and Hawke’s rough palm rubbing him to full life. Good. Damned good. But not precisely what he had in mind.

“I thought we might try it differently,” Anders said. There was a touch of shyness in his voice.

Hawke’s hand stopped, still around him. Anders didn’t elaborate, but he could see that Hawke understood what he meant.

“Will you be all right?” Hawke asked.

“The baby-”

“Will _you_ be all right.”

Anders made up his mind, rose up and kissed Hawke, ran his lips back over Hawke’s cheek, and put them at Hawke’s ear. “I’ll tell you if I’m not.”

The sensations in his body these last few weeks, the strange tightening when he flexed certain muscles that had haunted and disgusted him at first, had gradually become part of him. Less terrible to him, at any rate. And now that he was feeling better, there was an odd feeling of incompleteness, emptiness that wanted to be filled. He had the other, familiar urges as well. This was different to him, and curiosity and want had won out. He had been dazed and numb during the ritual, he hadn’t felt much beyond fright and a sense of intrusion. Here in their bed, with Hawke naked and hard in front of him, his new muscles and nerves burned for attention. He brought Hawke’s hand down, past the usual places.

Hawke readily followed the change in the program. No call to hurry, though. Anders lay back as Hawke’s short, blunt fingernails trailed up Anders’s inner thigh, leaving a light, scratched trail, and Anders felt Hawke’s strong fingers investigating him, gently opening him. His legs tensed, knees drawing up ever so slightly, and Hawke paused and made eye contact. _Okay?_

 _Okay._ Anders relaxed again. Hawke nuzzled at the wild pulse point in his throat, kissing, murmuring, as his index finger slid slowly into Anders’s body. Hawke explored the inner contours, pressing back when Anders’s muscles squeezed at him, watching Anders’s face for any fear or discomfort. None. Just a look of inward interest and quiet pleasure, and Hawke curled his finger and ran his fingertip firmly along the close walls of muscle. Anders’s hips tilted, grinding against Hawke’s hand. A bit-off groan.“Good,” he managed.

Maker, Hawke wanted to be inside of him. But not yet. He adjusted his hand to slip in two fingers. Tight, but Anders stretched for him, slick and spread.

Anders had tried this, by himself. He hadn’t much enjoyed it. But the angle had been different, he hadn’t been so wet and eager. His own fingers hadn’t felt so insistent or made him feel _full_. He found himself flexing and rocking and wanting more, as Hawke’s knuckles rubbed along his outer folds, jostling the underside of his balls. Now that Hawke was sure Anders was enjoying himself, he ducked his head to kiss along Anders’s hip and nibbled down his thigh, feeling Anders’s legs brushing at his shoulders as he settled between them.

Hawke didn’t ignore Anders’s other eager parts, the erection, the drawn-up sack. He was using his other hand now and running his lips and tongue over Anders. Anders started making little, desperate sounds deep in his throat, not sure which way to turn. The delicious sucking or the thick fingers inside, his body wavering back and forth between wanting to thrust and wanting to pull Hawke deeper, get more of him --

\-- When Hawke took away his hands and mouth, Anders growled, followed Hawke up as he sat back, and shoved Hawke over. Hawke found himself on his back with Anders astride him.

Anders inched forward, took Hawke’s hand in his, and guided him in, widening his kneeling stance and sinking down over him. Slowly. Hawke watched himself disappear into Anders’s body and had to bite his lip to keep from thrusting up to make them complete.

Anders took him inch by inch, slowly. His body was drawing Hawke in, impossibly making room. He settled on him to the hilt, eyes closed, concentrating. So much of him, all inside, spreading him apart. Anders’s hands were pressed on Hawke’s chest, his breathing was deliberate. He could feel Hawke’s thighs bunching and releasing and knew Hawke was fighting to stay still, to give him time, to let his body get used to this new way of joining.

Hawke’s hands came up to rest on Anders’s hips, his thumbs just resting on the low swell of his abdomen. Anders moved, shuddered, and made an appreciative sound. Maker, this was better than he dared think. Being full up, his muscles grasping at Hawke’s length, hot and nestled in that place that had obviously been waiting just for him and just for this. Anders shifted on him, began to rock, and Hawke felt himself squeezed and rolled. He met Anders’s eyes. Anders leaned forward, changing the angle, hitting a new spot inside that crackled and made his toes curl and he fell forward on his hands and kissed Hawke fiercely. “Maker. _Perfect._ ” He ground down against Hawke’s lap and groaned.

Hawke’s hand found Anders’s member and stroked him, smeared the beaded pre-cum and swirled his palm around the head, all the while caught up in tightness, wetness, and heat. He joined in as his heels dug into the mattress and lifted him into Anders in a steady, gentle pump, quickening as Anders slid and rocked himself on Hawke more urgently, his eyes closed and hair falling around his face. Hawke looked up at him and felt an amazing sense of _mine_. Love. Protectiveness. The firelight was reflecting in the beads of sweat on Anders’s skin, giving him a glow. Anders’s muscles clamped around him, a vice tightening, releasing, tightening again, several times over as Anders’s fingers bunched in the sheets either side of Hawke’s shoulders.

Hawke felt Anders release into his hand, felt the the velvety steel clenching around him, and came.


	4. Chapter 4

Year Five, Sixth Month (Justinian)

Hawke had a new fascination with his body. He loved the sensation of holding Anders to him. He liked to put his arms around Anders and run his hands along that changing part of him, feeling the soft warmth of Anders’s skin and the surprising firmness beneath.

Anders was a little less thrilled with his tightening clothes, though the situation wasn’t dire yet. He loosened the belts and the free, flowing shape of his long shirts did the rest. He took it a day at a time. At four months he could still get away with his usual clothes, though he had taken to layering to hide the changes in his formerly svelte shape. (This was slightly uncomfortable now that the summer sun was baking the city, but the alternative was a templar boot on his skull and a blade in his throat.) He hoped he was set to remain on the small side. Some... women... did. And this was his first. It was still difficult to think in those terms, to have to compare parts of himself to what he knew of female matters, but there it was. First children, on the whole, often showed less and showed later. “First”, as if there would be a second time. Never again. Those initial three months of hell were still too fresh in his mind, combined with growing apprehension of what was still to come.

The feeling of _wrong_ persisted, but he began to master it as the weeks went on. He was coming to an uneasy truce with himself. He had changed once, when he invited Justice in. He was determined to handle this as well, even though he was afraid. His heartbeat skipped and stung whenever a guardsman passed, whenever someone’s glance lingered on him too long. His clothes still hid him from casual eyes, but he was keenly aware of the heavy feeling and the constant, mild stretching of his muscles, and he was sure everyone could read his thoughts and discomfort clear as day. The nervousness drove him more and more to ground, kept him indoors at Hawke’s estate like a cowardly thing hiding in its den unless he was walking briskly, head down, to the clinic. His work there was still essential to the displaced and disadvantaged peoples of Kirkwall and he put himself under public scrutiny for their sake, but the fear was always with him.

Justice’s increasingly impatient mutterings were always with him, too. Justice chafed under the new chains that held Anders back from their goals: Anders had begun to allow himself fleeting daydreams about the future. About family. These were distractions, rankling ones, and Justice did not take them kindly. Their work was slowing as Anders grew more distracted by what was happening within. Selfish, petty distraction, as far as Justice was concerned, compared to the oppression and evils being perpetrated on every mage under the Chantry’s heel. Anders didn’t deserve time to himself when so many others were suffering.

There was a heretofore unsuspected bright side to Isabela buggering off: Anders was certain that the unorthodox (creatively filthy, delightfully world-wise) pirate-thief would have found him out in the first week. And the teasing would never, ever have stopped. That, and her loose tongue after a few stiff ales, and he suspected the secret would have been out among the gossips and fallen into templar ears. So in a _way_ , a good thing. Apart from the whole ‘Qunari uprising’ part.

Fenris was easy. Sullen bastard stayed in that crumbling mansion only a few streets away, but their mutual dislike set them miles apart. Hawke visited him sometimes, drank with him, listened to his stories, but Anders was never expected - or really welcome - to come along. That suited him. When Fenris arrived to work with Hawke on his reading lessons, Anders made himself scarce.

Merrill didn’t like his lectures or his snarking. They nodded at each other the rare times their paths crossed, but they didn’t seek each other out, and now that Isabela was gone, Merrill was sitting in alone in front of her broken demon mirror more than ever. Anders felt bad about that, but he also thought she was a reckless, dangerous fool. No matter the warnings in huge, sky-writ flaming letters, she kept on her path thinking her innocence was some kind of impenetrable armor. He wondered if she knew that he had a large hand in convincing Hawke not to help her with the mirror. Aveline, the other lovely lady in their little band, only had eyes for Guardsman Donnic, and her duties kept her quite busy.

So it went, throughout his fourth month, as he became ever-more adverse to scrutiny and determined to avoid the people who knew him best. Varric, of course, was a problem. He had been sending invitations, dropping in on them at the estate. There were only so many excuses Anders could make. One evening as Anders finished washing up after another long day in the clinic, Varric unexpectedly appeared and demanded Anders join him for dinner at the Hanged Man.

“It’s important,” Varric said, a bit mysteriously.

“Everything is all right?”

Still evasive, Varric tilted his head at the door. “We’ll see. Come along.”

Anders had a moment of suspicion. It was unfair, as Varric had been nothing but a constant friend, but Anders was suspicious of just about everyone these days. “What do you want?”

The dwarf smiled disarmingly. “Paranoia doesn’t suit you. Everything’s fine. Come on, let’s have dinner. We can’t talk here, not properly.”

Anders relented and accompanied him to the tavern. By the time they were seated in Varric’s suite Anders had relaxed, was smiling, as Varric recounted a recent misunderstanding in the Blooming Rose. He was master of the anecdote, and a font of easy camaraderie, and Anders even found himself laughing. He had missed that feeling. (Hawke was wonderful to him, but he wasn’t a very funny man.) The dinner was set out for them. The serving girl brought a pitcher of fruit juice and another of water, along with Varric’s usual bottle of wine, and Anders thanked the Maker for this bit of luck. Varric was in his usual chair at the head of the long table, and Anders sat in another chair was just to his right, so they didn’t have to shout down the tabletop.

They laughed, ate, and when the meal was through and cleared away Varric leaned back with his glass of wine and put his squat, booted feet up on the table. He looked at Anders, who was still picking at a plate of fruit and cheese, and grinned his very white, very sure grin. “You’re glowing, Blondie.”

Anders flicked his fingers and a soft blue light infused them. “I’m a mage.”

“That’s not what I meant. You haven’t come around to drink on my tab in weeks, and you aren’t buckling your robes so tightly anymore.”

Anders went a bit pale, his defenses came up, and Varric took a sip of his wine to stifled a smirk. He let Anders start on an explanation (“rich food”), then he had enough of his joke and making Anders squirm, and he set his goblet down.

“Relax, my friend. Hawke told me. Then he asked me to help him haul some things up from storage. The cradle was the biggest clue.”

“He _told_ you?” Anders asked incredulously.

“Of course he told me,” Varric said smoothly. “We’re business partners. If he suddenly has another set of expenses, like feeding and clothing a nugling, then his cash flow has to accommodate.” Varric’s usual leather gloves were off and his rings glinted in the fire. Different seals for the various branches of his guild trade. “Congratulations.”

Anders was still aghast. “I can’t believe he told you.” Then he thought about it a bit harder. His eyes narrowed. “…Or that you took it so well.”

Varric laughed. “I didn’t take it well at all. I drank ten pints before I could think of anything to say, and then - I’d had ten pints, you understand - I started giving him the talk about barriers and telling him to make an honest man of you.”

Anders went back to his plate. He selected a grape. “I’m a very honest man.”

“I know you better than that. You’re always up to something.” Varric shook his head with a smile. He grew more serious. “He didn’t tell me too much - but we did send a few boys around to those caves, to see if they could find anything else. The place was empty. Andraste help them if they set foot in Kirkwall again.”

“Thank you.”

“So you tell me what you need, Blondie, any time.” The cheerful smile returned. “Nothing but the best for my godson.”

“Your godson.” Anders repeated.

“Of course. I mean, nobody's _asked_ me yet, but naturally I assumed...” Varric trailed off with false, roguish modesty.

Anders grinned.

* * *

That night, in their bed. “You told Varric.”

“Varric is our friend. I had to tell someone. I was about to explode.”

“That would have been very bad,” Anders said in his best Merrill-like voice. “Very messy.”

“You don’t really mind, do you?” Hawke asked, looking a little guilty. “I wouldn’t put us in any danger.”

“I know that. No, I don’t mind. Varric is our friend.” The best friend they had, probably, when all was said and done. “Maker knows we have precious few of those.”

  



	5. Chapter 5

Good days and bad days. Those times with Varric, knowing that there was someone beyond him and Hawke that could be trusted, those were good days. Being loved by Hawke and having Varric’s friendship buoyed him. There were also bad days, when he woke up feeling like an abomination. The enormity of what what he had undertaken caught up with him and Justice’s voice got louder. Bad days when every smile Hawke gave him made him angry because Anders felt Hawke was enjoying this far too much. They weren’t playing house. It was all right for Hawke, looking on, marveling at how he seemed bigger by the day, while Anders felt nothing but confusion and discomfort and resented Hawke’s steady self-assurance.

Hawke knew as well as Anders the dangers that hung over them every moment of the day. He never felt at ease unless Anders was safely in his sight. He kept his anxieties to himself because Anders deserved a rock of support, not someone just as scared as he was. So they went on, going through the motions of love, but intimacy was slowly seeping away.

One of those bad days, but Hawke was eager and Anders, though not in the mood, figured he owed him. Living in his house, eating his food, protected by his position as Champion of Kirkwall - it was the least he could do, wasn’t it? That was how he felt about sex on bad days. Like being back at the Circle, playing at love.

It was a particularly bad day, though, and Hawke’s hands too readily went to his thighs, ignoring his manhood, and Anders lost patience and grabbed his wrists. “I don’t want to do that.”

A tiny bit of disappointment flashed on Hawke’s face. A split second while Anders wanted to hit him. His hands squeezed around Hawke's wrists. “Maybe I’d like to have _you_ , for once.” That urge hadn’t gone. It was still part of him, still the kind of sex he wanted. Sometimes.

Hawke hadn’t suspected he was treading on such thin ice. “I’m sorry. I thought -”

“What? That I’m just convenient, and don’t want anything else?”

“No.” Nothing Hawke said was going to be right, he could feel it already. He had been hoping to relax Anders, not enrage him. Of course Anders must still feel as before, but more often than not this was… yes, more convenient. To seat himself in Anders and be close, kiss him, without the need to prepare or slick up. Practicality wasn't the _sexiest_ rubric, but Anders never seemed to... dislike it. At least, Hawke hadn’t thought so. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Where’s the lotion?” Anders asked.

Hawke retrieved the flask from the wardrobe and returned to the bed.

Anders watched him cross the room. He had shaved his beard into a neat goatee on a whim, revealing more of his jawline. Not delicate, but definitely not the boxy squareness the beard had suggested. Beautiful. And Maker, his body. Muscles honed by training, arms that could make a broadsword glide and flutter as easily as a ribbon and just as gracefully. Well-defined, every part of him, from his heavy shoulders, the flat board of his abdomen, his powerful legs lined by strong tendons. His skin given texture under Anders’s hands by the hair across his chest, a thick line to his groin, his fuzzy legs, thighs, forearms. Anders’s mouth was dry. Even before... all of this, Anders had been sleeker. A good figure, but set by different use: trekking, running, and wielding a staff, not marching, the bulk of platemail, and arms drills. Such a powerful, beautiful creature - and all his. Standing before him, waiting on his command.

“You’re really sorry?” Anders asked.

“Yes.” Hawke didn’t want to fight and his body was still half-hard, eager to get back to what they had been doing.

Anders threw a cushion onto the flagstones. “On your knees.”

Hawke looked at Anders, looked at the floor, then back. Anders was at the edge of the bed, legs apart.

Hawke knelt between his knees and turned his blue eyes up to him.

Anders smiled archly.

Hawke inclined his head meekly, _yes, serah_ , and bent forward to pay homage.

* * *

Hawke was humming, managing Anders with one hand and his mouth, and using the other to cup and roll him between thumb and palm. The edge of the bed felt like the rim of a precipice as Anders leaned back on both hands. He felt like he was hanging in space, like he was leaving his body and all of its aches and worries. His release was close, he was tense and wound tight inside and he was rocking into Hawke’s mouth, into that warm, wet, sucking pressure. The only hitch, keeping him from reaching that point where stars sang: he was clenching at nothing. He hadn’t thought he wanted to be filled, but the emptiness was frustrating, too big a stumbling block, and Anders reached forward.

“Get up here,” Anders said, giving a tug at Hawke’s dark hair. His voice was sheer need. Trying to resurrect some semblance of their game, to pretend that he wasn’t absolutely wanton and powerless under Hawke’s hands: “Don’t make me ask twice.” No need to let on he’d be bowling Hawke over onto the rug and having him that way before he could rally the brainpower to _ask_ again.

Hawke licked his lips. He pushed off the floor and Anders fell back, Hawke between his legs. He wrapped them around Hawke’s waist, pulling him close. Hawke propped himself on one arm and they looked at each other. Hawke froze like this, waiting for Anders to give the word. His tip was brushing at Anders, infuriatingly close, making Anders shake and clench in expectation as Hawke hung over him.

“Inside,” Anders ordered. Begged. Whatever.

Hawke took hold of himself and slid in. Anders tightened his grip on Hawke’s waist, settling him tightly. That stiff thickness made Anders’s toes curl, his fingers running up Hawke’s forearms and digging in. Hawke put his hand between them and rubbed from the base of Anders’s straining erection up along its length, flush against the gentle bulge of his stomach, and back down. Anders shuddered, squeezed Hawke inside and out, feeling every vein and line of him, and Hawke started to move.

* * *

They were catching their breath together. Hawke pulled the blankets higher around them. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Tell me when you’re unhappy. Tell me if there’s something you need. You don’t have to hide it.”

“I don’t know what I want half the time,” Anders admitted. “Sometimes I’m angry, and sometimes I just...”

Hawke was caressing his shoulder. “Okay.”

Another irrational surge of anger. The docility in Hawke’s expression, his understanding, it was just too much. “You’re so _bloody_ patient with me.” Anders sat up. Why should that make him furious? He was angry without meaning to be. It was an impersonal kind of anger, like Vengeance’s crimson roar in his soul. But directed at Hawke. Anders still woke in a cold sweat when he remembered that innocent mage girl. If Hawke was in danger, if the forces inside him had turned against his lover...

Hawke sat up beside him.

“None of this is your fault,” Anders said. It sounded like an argument he had made many times in his head. Trying to convince himself. “It can’t be easy for you, either.”

Hawke traced the swirling patterns of the bedspread with his eyes.

“Maker, it’s hard.”

“Again? We’ve just -” the bitter joke died away as Anders’s head turned. Hawke was looking older, no longer the fresh and eager Ferelden refugee that had first bounded into his clinic looking for maps and glory.

It wasn’t easy for Hawke to open up, not even to Anders. When his father died, he had become his family’s anchor. His poor mother, his sister who had to be protected, a little brother to watch over. He was used to being the quiet support, keeping himself in check, taking on everyone else’s burdens and burying his own. But Anders was asking questions with his eyes, wanting to help him.

Hawke’s voice was hesitant, unpracticed at being so candid when it came to himself. “There’s hardly a moment when I’m not wondering what will become of us. Every day I hear some new edict handed down by Meredith, and I think of you, and...”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Anders asked.

“Because I worry about you.”

They sat in silence for a moment, as both realized that they had been suffering together.

Anders felt very stupid and selfish. And useless. “I’m not fragile.”

“I know.” Hawke also knew just how hard Anders had to fight to keep himself, amid the conflicting voices in his head and soul. Anders meant well, but he was barely holding together. He was no help to anyone. Not a kind thing to think about his partner, but true. Hawke just had to keep telling himself that things would get better.

“What about leaving?” Hawke asked finally. “After the child, I mean. We could go back to Ferelden.”

Anders crossed his arms and shook his head, as if they were already defeated. “What’s in Ferelden for us?”

“There’s no Meredith,” Hawke pointed out.

“There are others just like her, no matter where we go. No place is safe for people like me. And maybe...” Anders gestured down at himself.

“You think so?”

“It’s too early to tell.”

“I had been wondering,” Hawke admitted.

“I’m sorry. I hope...”

“Don't ever be sorry. There’s always room for another apostate in the family.” Then, more seriously, “I’ll keep you both safe. Always.”

Anders wished he could believe that.  



	6. Chapter 6

Year Five (9:35), Seventh Month (Solace)

At twenty-two weeks he had to admit defeat and switch to robes. Flowing ones. One night, as Hawke breathed deeply and evenly beside him, he felt the child stir.

Year Five (9:35), Eighth Month (August)

He had never been so aware of a year turning. For most of his life, the days had all run together. The seasons had always been broken up by cold spells and warm spells, rain and harvest, but now every hour that passed seemed marked. It was warm, humid, he was at six months and seemed destined never to have a proper night’s sleep again. The moment he was comfortable, the kicking and stretching started. He was carrying snugly, not too high, not out front, and he could feel a lot of motion. Always when he wanted to sleep. (But, if he was honest, it wasn’t so much discomfort as excitement that kept him awake.)

He hadn’t expected to bond with this strange passenger, but the quickening had opened some connection between them. Justice was mute during these times, when Anders was lying beside Hawke and communing with the sensation of little limbs moving. Perhaps he could still recognize something wholly pure and good when he saw it.

The movements weren’t strong enough yet for Hawke to feel, and Anders was impatient. In the Circle, one’s joys always had to be felt alone. At this time of his life he was desperate to share them.

With the case half a year old and no leads at all, the Guard gave up trying to identify the poor girl who had met her end during the ritual in the cave. The case notes were filed away among the other records of missing persons, overflowing after the chaos of the Blight and the influx of Fereldens. She might have been a refugee, a runaway, or perhaps a misguided girl who had willingly fallen in with dangerous people. It seemed they would never know. They had no name, but Hawke paid for a small marker stone to be put up in memory of her and all of the forgotten, all those who fell through the cracks.

Most of Anders’s time was spent at the desk in the library, writing and rewriting his manifesto. It had to be perfect. Along with the teachings of the Maker and his arguments from the sense of just and unjust churning inside, he gathered stories from mages and their families. When their families were sympathetic. It made him burn with rage when they were not. His own father had been afraid of him, and he detested the looks of relief on some parents’ faces when they spoke of their children being taken. No thought for the scared little beings suddenly thrown to the Chantry wolves, to be abused, beaten, put under the yoke and the constant, terrible threat of Tranquility. He spoke out against these people just as strongly as those who had a more personal hand in making life hell for his kind.

He wrote beautiful words about people like Hawke and his family. Brave, good people, who stood between the vulnerable and injustice. He didn’t name names, but if Hawke read it (and Anders left enough copies around - in the books, in his sock drawer, in his scabbard) he was sure to recognize himself and his parents. He would see how much his support meant to Anders, to all mages.

Justice still insisted that pen and ink wouldn’t change the world. Anders was having more good days than bad, though, and studiously ignored him.

* * *

Toward the end of the month. Hawke was standing in the bedroom, changing out of his traveling clothes. Anders opened the door and padded in. Hawke turned and smiled at him in welcome; they hadn’t seen each other for nearly two weeks, as Hawke had lately been overseeing - and funding - projects for new winter quarters for the miners out at the Bone Pit. He liked to get out to see the works in person.

He held out his hand to Anders, and they retired to the canopied bed. Anders leaned over to kiss him in greeting, and Hawke embraced his lover carefully. It was easy to throw Anders off balance these days.

“Do you want some news?” Anders asked him.

“Is it good news?”

“Just news,” Anders said with a smile.

“Tell me, then.”

Anders’s brown eyes were alive. “I have it on fairly good authority that we’re going to have a daughter.”

Hawke grinned. Girl, boy, he honestly had no preference, just so long as they all came through this safely. But the idea of a little girl, that was... that was good.

“I have some ideas for names,” Anders continued.

Hawke raised his eyebrows. “They aren’t recycled names for cats, are they? Like ‘Mrs. Wiggums’?”

“Of course not, that’s a stupid name.” Anders held up a finger. “Consider, though, Pounce-a-Lot the Second. Now _that_ has a ring to it.”

Hawke laughed.

Anders pulled at his robes to straighten them. “Actually, I was thinking about... Leandra.”

Hawke turned to face him on the bed.

Anders explained, “I told you that I was sorry I never got to know your mother. This feels like a good way to do her honor. For giving the world such a wonderful man.”

“Flatterer.” Hawke thought of his mother, how proud she would be. “Thank you.”

Anders’s mother had been taken from his life early, by the blighted Circle. He hadn’t known she was dead until his fifth escape and a chance run-in with a family friend. The grief had been what slowed him down, why they had caught him that time. He had told himself never again, and had turned healthy grief for his own mother into yet more anger, burned it all up and directed it into hate. Hawke was still grieving, and it was his pain that Anders could try to ease. His own was warped into something vengeful and beyond his control.

He tried to shove those thoughts from his head.

“Something else I want to show you. Like a homecoming gift.” Anders put Hawke’s hand on his thin house robes. “Now say something.”

“... What should I say?” Hawke asked.

Thump. Hawke tilted his head like a confused mabari, and Anders had to laugh. He was beaming. “She likes your voice.”

“Was that...?”

Anders was still smiling. Not his usual, nervous half-grimace, but eyes shining, his whole face lit up. Hawke felt another rolling motion swipe at his hand.

“We missed you. She hasn’t moved this much all the time you’ve been away.” Anders’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling in mock offense. “My company apparently isn’t good enough for her.”

His hand traced up Hawke’s thigh and cupped him. He palmed Hawke and felt him going stiff. Anders’s eyebrow raised mischievously. “Seems like it’s good enough for you, though.”

“Maker, yes.”


	7. Chapter 7

Year Five (9:35), Ninth Month (Kingsway)

Seven months. He glared at his reflection. Definitely awkward, even in robes, and tight garments underneath. His back hadn’t stopped aching in weeks. His hips were sore. His legs. Everything was a reminder that he simply wasn’t made for this.

The novelty of it all had worn off, replaced by growing anxiousness. There had been an odd run-in with Fenris, who had been spending more time with Hawke recently. Anders hadn’t managed to clear out of the library before Fenris arrived for his reading lesson, and he had fixed Anders with a look of such snake-like coldness that Anders hadn’t been able to speak. He had books in his arms at the time, and he hoped that had hidden his shape. (Anyway, who would suspect? The sheer unbelievability of his predicament was a shield, in some ways.) But Fenris’s eyes had narrowed, his nostrils had twitched. Hawke had walked in and Anders made a quick escape to the upper floors.

That was a week ago. Anders hadn’t rested easy since.

Hawke came up behind him, put his arms around him, drawing his robes tight across his front. Anders shrugged away from his hands, yanking at his robes so they fell loosely, and met Hawke’s eyes in the mirror’s face.

“I don’t like to go out anymore.”

Hawke’s chin gently rested on his shoulder. “You don’t have to. Most of the clinic’s business has stopped, you said so.”

“I don’t like feeling trapped, either.” Too much like the Circle. “And there’s still a lot to do.”

Hawke bit off his disapproval. They had talked about this. Fought about it. Anders was devoted to his cause, no matter the circumstances. There were messengers at the door at all hours, and whatever Anders was doing in the library, surrounded by piles of books in what, to Hawke’s eyes, was gibberish. Still carrying on the fight. If they had open war _tomorrow_ , Hawke had no doubt Anders would be on the front lines. And he’d be next to him.

“It’s for the best,” Hawke said. Anders wasn’t his prisoner, but he was under his protection. Robes or no, he couldn’t hide that something was different about him. Anyone who knew him would see it right away.

Anders considered. “Maybe you’re right. I hate the thought of being house-bound, but... I could still duck into Darktown through the cellars. I’ve got plenty of work that can be done here, mixing, and... the other things.” The stacks of papers hidden up inside the fireplaces in charmed boxes, and other ingenious places, in case Meredith’s influence ever grew to the point that she could have the Champion of Kirkwall’s home raided like that of a common fencer. Messages that passed furtively through the undercurrents of the city, times and places for meetings, drop-offs, arrangements for supplies for the hidden and needy. There was an evolving cypher governing it all, and Anders devoted some hours every day to transcribing and recasting the codes.

“There are a lot of ladders between here and Darktown,” Hawke pointed out.

“I’m not incapable. Are you calling me fat?” Anders teased. There was an element of truthful fear behind the words. He wasn’t the size of a house, but his walk had adopted a certain... swing (not waddle, Maker, please let it not be a waddle) with the extra weight and his joints loosening and preparing. Vain, maybe, but it made him feel ridiculous, unattractive... and vulnerable. All of those times escaping from the Circle he had been quite light on his feet, now he would have no choice but to fight. And lose.

“Of course not. I just... would worry. I’ll get some tradesmen in, and see what can be done.”

“That would cost scores of sovereigns. Leave it. It’s not a problem.”

“Still pretty limber?” Hawke asked, his voice low. Bedchamber voice.

“Indeed.” His own nerves were tuned to that tone of voice. Want sparked to life. Anders looked away, playing at being prim. As if he didn’t notice Hawke’s hand stealing toward him.

“Prove it.”

Anders followed him across the room. Hawke’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he sat. Anders swung onto his lap, thankfully not too awkwardly, and followed him over as Hawke carefully lowered them to the mattress.

* * *

Three weeks later. He was returning from walking the streets. He hadn’t gone anywhere particular, it was just that he had to get out of the house, take in some sun. Not the grubby, greasy sun that filtered through the smoke and dust into Darktown, but proper, Hightown light.

He was almost home. He could see the Amell family crests gleaming either side of the vine-wreathed door, when the templars surrounded him. Quick as a flash, he felt the heavy, awful spell of silencing wrapped around him. It was like a part of him was paralyzed. There, but useless, dead weight. A gloved hand clamped across his mouth and nose, stifling his yells. His arms were yanked back even as he tried to fight them, but there were three of them and only one of him. He caught a glimpse of a slender figure, white hair and sharp ears, looking on from the shadow of the doorway, and then darkness as a bag came down over his head and a gauntlet cracked against his temple.

They hauled him up a long flight of stone steps hot from the sun into someplace cooler, and finally he was thrown to the floor. The sole of a boot stomped on his chest, keeping him down, knocking the air out of his lungs. More hands pulled at his robes, baring his changed body to them, deftly ripping his clothes from his shoulders and legs until he was lying naked on the stone floor, pinned at his wrists and ankles.

The bag over his head was pulled off, and above him was the Maker, his face golden and shining amid the thick, perfumed smoke curling toward the high ceiling. The chantry.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

His head was still spinning from the blow, and the deep smell of candles and incense choked him. He felt Leandra twisting in him, responding to his fear with her own.

He was dragged to his knees, the ceiling and walls switched places, the golden, glowing statues swayed in front of his confused eyes - then a blade that one of the templars drew from his scabbard, suddenly very real, right in front of his face.

“No, _please_ -”

“Open him up.”

The sword’s edge tested his swollen flesh, biting once, then dug in and sliced across his belly, gutting him. Blood and water poured onto the floor as Anders screamed for Hawke, for anyone’s help, as the templar’s gantlet-encased fingers reached roughly into his wound and tore at his insides -

He woke up with a gasp, sweating, heart racing. The room was dark and light sprung from his hands as he stared wildly around the walls, terrified of every shadow. Hawke was instantly awake next to him. “Anders-?”

Anders was still half in his nightmare and looked at Hawke with wide eyes.

“What happened?” Most men would have been afraid to wake up beside a mage so lost in his own head, but Hawke completely forgot his own safety, seeing the terror on Anders’s face. “It’s okay. It’s _me_. Anders, what’s wrong?”

“They took her.” Anders was feeling himself, pulling the covers away.

Hawke reached out to put his hands on Anders’s. “You were sleeping. It was a dream, Anders.”

Anders responded to the firmness of his voice. He looked toward Hawke, down to their hands clasped on himself, and his face crumpled.

Hawke gathered him up and hugged him. He felt Anders’s arms get around him like a vice.

“Maker,” Anders whimpered. “ _Maker_.” The tide of adrenaline finally broke.

“It’s okay. We’re all here.” Hawke tried to soothe him, running his hand up and down Anders’s back, holding him close. They stayed like that for awhile, Anders sniffling, Hawke gently tracing his spine, kissing him, talking quietly.

Anders finally pulled away to look into Hawke’s face. His eyes were wet. “Maker, if they knew... suspected... You couldn’t protect us from them. They wouldn’t bother with Tranquility. They’d put us to the sword.”

If they did, they would pay with their blood. Hawke would invoke his own Rite of Annulment... on Meredith and all of her templars. Whatever fears they had of mages, abominations, and demons would fall away like children’s scare stories compared to him. His look was dark.

“It was just a dream,” he said again.

“It wasn’t. That’s what they would do.” Anders looked down. “What is this world?”

“A rotted place. But we’re going to change it.”


	8. Chapter 8

One as Meaningful, Chapter 8  
Warnings: Same as previous chapters.  


* * *

Year Five (9:35), Tenth Month (Harvestmere)

Anders sat in their bedroom, in a chair he had dragged in front of the fire. This room had become his refuge. The high windows and the thick door with its heavy lock made him feel secure. So did the place-memories, and the reminders of the person he shared it with: Hawke’s clothes, boots, his open journal sitting on the corner table. The table was also piled high with Anders’s books and papers. A candle, its narrow, waxy stem marked out with hour increments, was glowing amid the papers and ink pots.

Fenris was downstairs having his reading lesson. Anders always kept the bedroom door locked. Ten o’clock, the usual time that Fenris admitted defeat and bad-naturedly stomped off home, came and went. Anders frowned. He couldn’t even call Bodahn to stick an ear to the door; they had packed him and Sandal off on a several-month trip to visit some family friends.

Anders was still sitting deep in thought when Hawke let himself in with his key.

“Did he finally decided to go home?” Anders asked. He glanced at the candle. It had burned down to almost nothing, almost midnight.

“He’s making a lot of progress. We decided to keep working.” Hawke shrugged. He moved to his wardrobe and started changing into his nightclothes.

Anders was staring into the fire. “What do you talk about?”

“Dogs chasing cats. Cats sleeping on mats.”

Anders gave him a look.

“Not much, honestly. Just his lessons. Come to bed,” Hawke said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“What if...” The stresses were piling up on Anders. Justice was still urging him forward, more impatient than ever. Meredith and her templars haunted his every thought. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. He was afraid of what was so close at hand. He couldn’t picture their lives with a child, someone vulnerable that needed looking after. He couldn’t look forward and see any hope, any future. The birth would be dangerous -- perhaps that was why he couldn’t see past it to their lives beyond. A premonition. There was no guarantee he could even... He had assisted women who had died, women who had spent their last days - it usually went on days - in agony, until exhaustion finally took them.

He was frightened. He had told Hawke. One night, stammering and embarrassed, he had tried to explain what they would face and give Hawke instructions. If he went on, if a choice had to be made. Tell the midwife to use the knife. It was important that Hawke know, be prepared. He would be too far gone, or scared and begging for his life. If his nerve and body failed him, it would fall to Hawke to choose. (Cutting was a last resort. Usually only when the mother was already gone, because they were hard wounds to heal. Bleeding and infection usually finished what exhaustion and the blade had started, no matter how good the herbalist, or how strong the healer.)

He had found someone to assist him. An elderly elf woman, arrived during the Blight, who had served as a healer for many years. She was an apostate like him, and her arrival in the city had been a boon for the alienage. He had approached her himself, alone. It was a risk that had to be taken. Fortunately, she had been nothing but calm and reassuring. She had lived a long time and seen her share of strange things.

It had meant the world to find someone he could consult, who checked him over and declared them in good health. Together he and the healer had plied spells to seek out any problems, things he couldn’t do well on his own -- his healing energies were so quickly depleted now, his body was placing Leandra before anything else. Everything indicated a perfectly normal, healthy, human child. He had nearly cried in relief.

His relief and her assurances were tempered with reality. Neither of them were naive about the dangers. He felt better to know he wouldn’t be unattended, but there was no escaping the fear.

Hawke watched him. He could almost see the anxious threads of Anders’s thoughts, but he didn’t look so pale by the fire’s glow. The light playing on his hair highlighted it gold and rose.

Hawke’s hand was still on his shoulder. Anders folded his arm up to gasp it and rest his cheek against Hawke’s fingers.

Hawke brushed his face and noted the dark circles under his eyes. “This isn’t doing either of you any good.”

Anders tore his gaze from the dancing fire and turned to Hawke. Hawke was the picture of concern, but Anders was aware of such a distance between them. Hawke couldn’t possibly understand.

Part of the problem was that Anders couldn’t explain what was in his mind. There were words for fear and pain, he could use his training to estimate what could go wrong. None of that got to the heart of how _lonely_ he felt. Like death, this was something entered into alone. Someone could hold your hand, but they couldn’t come along with you.

And if he had trouble, if he couldn’t do it, he should be willing to die so Leandra could live. That was how he was _meant_ to feel. And yet. He hadn’t realized he would be so afraid.

He was expected to be martyr to their child. It was a very lonely place to be. He wanted Hawke to be thinking of _him_. In some ways, he felt he was already dead and gone. Did that sound mad? Selfish? He was a weak, selfish man. “I know I took this on willingly, so ‘shut up, Anders’. You have to think about her first. I _know_. Just, please, while I’m still here--”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Hawke interrupted firmly.

Anders shook his head.

Hawke could read Anders better than his lover thought. He hadn’t missed Anders’s irritation the morning Hawke woke up and greeted Leandra first. Just as a game, of course, but Anders had been upset. It might have struck him as petty, but Hawke couldn’t comprehend what it must be like for Anders, and couldn’t hold anything against him. He just needed to know, once and for all, if worse came to worst, what Anders wanted. “Anders, you _told_ me -- I didn’t want to hear it, but you made me promise that I would put her first.”

“Yes. I know. All right.” He leaned away from Hawke and crossed his arms.

“That’s what you want? If -- _if_ I have to choose. Tell me.”

“Yes. Of course it is.” _Don’t listen to me. I’m stupid. I’m selfish. I’m scared._

“Let’s not fight.” The last thing Hawke wanted to do was argue, or dwell on this any more. “Let’s just go to bed and...”

Anders smiled faintly. “Please.”

Hawke held out his hands and pulled Anders to his feet.

Anders wasn’t in the mood for the act itself. Too achey, too worried and exhausted. But he was craving love -- and in his mind, the two had become inextricable.

He didn’t know if it was Justice’s doing, convincing him that sex should be about pledging and promising rather than bodies rubbing together until they came. That had been sex in the Circle. Physical release (when given willingly, not being pinned under a templar and had by violence) was one of the only ways to find any ease. But looking back on such meaningless, quick fun, it was anathema to him now. Maybe it was Justice’s hidebound idealism, or perhaps he himself had just gotten tired of lifting his robes and forcing himself to forget about it as soon as it was done.

His time in the Circle was a blur of names and faces -- not _quite_ forgotten, no matter how hard he had tried, but Karl’s most strikingly of all. He had loved Karl. In another place, when they didn’t have so much to lose, he could have said so. They both could have said so. When he thought back to it, he felt the self-hate of the coward.

He and Hawke had everything to lose, too. But he had said “I love you.” He didn’t know if he had become braver or just more reckless.

He was trying to make room for Hawke -- awkwardly, lying on his side amid the pillows, pulling his knee up. He felt enormous. Crowded out of his own body. Turning Hawke away, though -- Anders couldn’t do that. Not when this was how it should be, showing how much they loved each other.

Hawke’s hand helped him prop his leg. Hawke was telling him to relax, kissing his shoulders and that ticklish spot on his neck. This wasn’t cheap, Anders reminded himself. He wasn’t being used. He was being loved.

Anders tried to come back to what they were doing. He imagined himself more... mobile. The things they would do once he could really participate again, once he had the energy. He could feel the heat of Hawke’s hands, the strength in them that Hawke was holding back. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Hawke was hard behind him, and the heat of his breath swirled across Anders’s neck.

Hawke ran his hand up from Anders’s knee, pulling his robe along with it, but even that tickle of soft, smooth cloth being drawn from him, leaving him naked to the night air, and Hawke’s calloused, warm hand, left him still inside. Hawke smoothed his hand back down Anders’s hip, under his stomach, and found him. He bit at Anders’s earlobe and started to stroke.

Nothing was happening. Hawke would notice, soon, and... and he would be hurt. Maybe angry. Anders felt the edge of desperation. Nothing. His teeth bit into his lower lip. As long as he kept quiet, let Hawke make love to him -- it would all be all right.

Hawke had noticed that his partner wasn’t responding. His body was half-curled and motionless in Hawke’s arms, small and lifeless in his palm. No answering heat at all. Hawke propped himself up and leaned over Anders. The look on Anders’s face was anything but content. He looked tired, pinched, eyes squeezed shut in resignation.

Anders, feeling Hawke’s gaze and his poise, opened his eyes. He turned his head on the pillow to look up at Hawke. There was a ring of desperation in him, like he was about to cry.

Hawke frowned, Anders blushed and looked away, and Hawke’s intuition flashed.

“What if I just hold you?” Hawke snuggled down, fit his arms around him, and pressed his nose contentedly at Anders’s neck.

Anders felt him out. “You’re still...”

“I’m a grown man. I’m fine.” Hawke shifted so he didn’t feel so insistent to Anders. He gave Anders a small squeeze. “How are you?”

“Tired. I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Hawke slipped his elbow up above Anders’s shoulder, under Anders’s head, and Anders buried his cheek against the fold of his arm. They lay together for awhile. Anders’s face cooled as his embarrassment faded. Hawke was warm and content holding him. They didn’t have to do anything if he didn’t want to.

Hawke’s lips were at his ear. “You remember that first night?”

Anders did. Hawke’s hand in his, pulling him to the bed. This bed. It seemed a lifetime ago.

“I was surprised,” Hawke said. “After all of your talk about the way it was in the Circle, Isabella’s stories about you, I was a little afraid you just wanted, well...”

“A few nights in a nice set of sheets? No.” Anders hugged the arm across his chest.

“It was just that you were so serious. You came to live here a week later. My head was spinning.”

Anders hadn’t considered that he might have come on _strong_. His thoughts had been full of Hawke every night for... years. Since the Deep Roads. Seeing him treat others so fairly, standing up for mages, anyone who needed him... He had imagined the life they could make together, down to the smallest detail. Gentle flirting by day had fueled a thousand nighttime fantasies. Not just of sex, but of partnership, security, ambitions. He had felt so close to Hawke already, like he couldn’t live without him. He hadn’t stopped to think that Hawke might not be equally obsessed.

Hawke was carding his blond hair with his fingers. “All of your talk about the future... our futures.”

“Did I make a fool of myself?” Anders asked.

“No. I think that was when I knew. The way you looked at me, and asked if I would stand by you. Something in me shouted _yes_. Knowing what it meant to you -- from that instant, I was yours.”

Anders smiled. Another few quiet moments passed, and Anders wished he could stay like this forever. This was nice... but it wasn’t comfortable. Anders groaned in frustration, gently, guiltily shifted in Hawke’s arms, and tried to move the pillows about.

“Hm?”

“Back.”

Hawke kneaded his lower back for a few moments, helped him adjust the pillow between his knees, and then Hawke spooned up against him again. Anders closed his eyes as Hawke’s warmth sank into his tense muscles and his arm resettled around Anders’s waist. Hawke’s palm ran over the silky material of his nightshirt, tracing the heavy curve of his stomach.

Anders took his wrist and moved his hand to where the baby was currently jabbing him with her little foot. Hawke’s fingers lightly pressed on the spot, and Leandra pushed back. They did this a few times as Hawke chuckled in Anders’s ear and kissed the back of his neck. Anders, with his partner beside him, their child in him, the gentle game between these two people he belonged to, and himself the essential, loved link, felt a moment of peace.


	9. Chapter 9

One as Meaningful, Chapter 9  
Warnings: Same as previous chapters.  


* * *

Year Five (9:35), Eleventh Month (Firstfall)

The house was quiet again. Varric had just gone home, after lunch and several games of cards with Anders. He always stopped in when Hawke was away. Almost as if there were a grand conspiracy to keep an eye on their mage friend, who was thirty-five weeks along and immensely tense. (What did they talk about? Varric talked about everything, since every bit of gossip in the city funnelled to him in the Hanged Man. Anders said almost nothing, but he was grateful for the company. Communing with Dog was only so rewarding... particularly for a cat person.)

Hawke himself was with Aveline at the Keep. Some new contingency plans for threats from within the city, still being hammered out to the satisfaction of the nobles, now that the Qunari had shown them how quickly things could spin out of control. Varric took his leave, and Anders settled at his desk to write out another copy of his manifesto. He was sending them outside the city now, to various places up and down the coast and further afield. Perhaps the word would spread and more support would come. One could never have too many allies.

Anders’s pen scraped across the parchment, working intently, until the slightest motion of air, the slightest hint of a shadow, gave him pause. He froze, all but his hand, which kept scrawling along but was only writing gibberish as he focused his senses outward. The room was deceptively silent. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He wasn’t alone.

His staff was never far away. He glanced to it, his hand paused -- and suddenly a blur, a flash, and the prick of a blade’s tip at his back, between his ribs.

“Stand up, mage.”

Fenris.

“If I don’t?” Anders retorted.

“Then you die. Believe me, I would lose no sleep over it.”

Anders felt the point dig in, as Fenris demonstrated he had the blade exactly where he wanted it. Slide in, pierce the heart, done.

Anders slowly rose from the chair. He knew Fenris was watching his every slow movement, as gravity wasn’t kind these days. He heard Fenris reach over, grab up his staff, and toss it away.

Then Fenris was circling him. Anders felt slight, sharp pressure travel across his skin as Fenris traced the knife point on the thin material of his house-robes, up over his shoulder - nicking at the hollow of his throat - and down his front. The knife traced his sternum, then lower, to the awkward weight and roundness of his abdomen.

“I knew something was wrong with you, but that... That’s a sight.” Fenris’s lip curled in disgust. His voice was deep and cold, like steel plunging into viscera. “That’s blood magic.”

Anders couldn’t hide. He squared his shoulders. “It’s no concern of yours.” Hatred was giving him the strength to stand firm, unflinching, under Fenris’s disgusted examination.

“Abomination, I won’t let you prey on the innocent.” Fenris’s eyes narrowed under the starkly-black brows.

This damaged little elf dared to... Rage flickered. Protect himself, Hawke, their secret. A slight, sinister glow seeped into the air around Anders as Justice stirred.

Fenris, if he realized the danger, ignored it. “I know you’ve bewitched him. I would spare him pain, so tonight I’ve only come to warn you. Go to your own doom. Leave Hawke out of it.”

Having said his piece, he twirled the knife in his fingers and tucked it away, and moved toward the library door.

Not so fast. Anders lashed out with a quick slap of magic, crashing the door shut in its frame, almost splitting the hinges.

“How do I know you won’t go to the templars?” Anders was quite dangerous in that moment, and Fenris, turning, felt his own barely-contained fury coursing to the surface, to the silver lines banding his skin. He snarled at this mage, who had twisted Hawke’s mind and done things more unspeakable. He _should_ go to the templars. All he had to do was say “maleficar” and this place would be turned upside-down. Let the fat, slow apostate try to escape then. But Hawke - Hawke was yet one more of his victims, and Fenris would not see him hanged as an aider and abettor. His status could only offer so much protection.

Hawke, who had known about the time Varric was leaving and had begged off, desperate not to leave Anders alone too long, had entered the house just in time to hear the crash behind the library door. He dropped his cloak where it was and ran down the hall to the library.

Now he heard Fenris and Anders, their voices raised and furious. _Flaming dragon shit._ What was Fenris doing here? He tried the door, which was still warm and shuddering with magic, and had to shoulder it to get it to open.

He all but fell into the room, into the standoff. The two men were both alight with dangerous magic, poised to tear each other apart at the wrong twitch of a muscle. They barely noticed him, so caught in their own contest of hate.

“No one would miss me if I disappeared, mage, but you’d have a fight on your hands that you might not win.”

Hawke’s voice broke in, “Fenris, Anders, _stop_.”

Fenris looked to Hawke. “You’re home. Have you noticed your mate’s gone big at the middle? Even if he’s not been in your bed, it’s obvious, the way he waddles like a swollen sow.”

“Fenris -”

“Or has he shielded your eyes? Look at him, Hawke. Feel him. He’s not _right_.”

Anders stared back, pale and dangerous.

“I know very well what goes on under my roof,” Hawke said.

Fenris’s green eyes flashed. “You know, yet you don’t care. Interesting.” He tilted his head, examining Hawke intently. “He’s worked something on you as well, addled your mind. Can you not see it, Hawke? This is not natural. This is abomination. You’re in danger, and I won’t stand by.”

“There’s no evil here, Fenris. Believe me. This is not his doing.” Hawke was approaching slowly. If he could get between them -

Fenris hesitated, staring hard. A wisp of doubt. Then he snorted. “He’s trapped you with some filthy magicks. I doubt whatever he’s got in there is even human.” He eyed Anders up and down with quiet, animal hatred. “Whatever you want from him, you won’t have it.”

“ _Fenris._ ” Hawke saw the hurt in Anders’s eyes, a moment that hit home.

“I’m through here.” Fenris nodded curtly to Hawke. “You know where to find me when you need me. I will help you.”

He brushed by Hawke and left.

The tension of the encounter finally broke with the slam of the front door, and Anders realized he was shaking.

“Anders--” Hawke began.

Anders shook his head and left the room.

Hawke stared at the discarded parchment and pens, felt the magical charge in the air, and followed Anders.

* * *

Anders was sitting halfway up the stone staircase in the main hall, his hands clasped and elbows propped on his knees. He was resting his forehead against his hands, muttering quietly to himself. He could have been praying, but the words were dark.

Without Bodahn and Sandal’s constant, simple litany, the house was silent. Hawke stood at the bottom of the steps for a moment, then climbed the stairs and sat beside Anders, shoulder to shoulder.

Anders ignored Hawke for a few minutes. Then he began, his voice shaky, “I hear Justice… or Vengeance... that part of me... I hear him whispering to her. I don’t know what he’s saying. I don’t know if she understands him. It scares me.”

Damn Fenris, and damn Justice, and damn everything and everyone that had ever hurt Anders. Hawke brushed Anders’s shoulder with his own.

“What if he knows how to escape me? What if he wants someone new? She’s so vulnerable. I couldn’t stop him. He can hear me right now. Why is he so quiet?” Anders’s eyebrows were drawn together in angry concentration. “Say _something_.”

“Anders…”

“Not you.”

Hawke reached over to put an arm around him. “Just hang in there. A few more weeks.”

“I don’t want to.” Anders shook his head. His hands twisted in his nightshirt. “It’s too hard. I thought I was used to him being here -- his thoughts, his feelings. But sharing my body, too, it’s just too much. I feel so unsteady… used up. Everyone has as much of me as they want and I’m left with nothing.” He put his fingertips to his temples, ducking his head. “I don’t even know what I _am_ anymore. What is all of this? This isn’t... me... this isn’t even Justice. I hate to look at myself. I hate...” All of it. The aches. The constant, awkward feeling of fullness. Practice pains that took his breath away. Moving so heavily, like he was in manacles, but he wasn’t. Just his own body slowing him. It was all _wrong_.

“You’re still you. Even if your body is a little different. You’re Anders, and I love you.”

‘A little different’. That was true mastery of the understatement. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“You don’t. You don’t know what I’ve been thinking. What it feels like.” He looked at Hawke, wide, desperate-eyed, and serious. “I’m going mad. I’m losing my mind. And the less in control I am, the more dangerous I am... and the farther away you should be.”

Hawke rubbed his shoulder. “If you think I’d leave you now, you’re an idiot.”

“If you stay now, you’re an idiot.”

“Perhaps I am.”

He was purposefully leaving the door open. They both knew it. Anders was silently grateful.

“I’ve always suspected.” Joking made him feel a little more like himself. Whatever was left of himself. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he had never been real. Ruled by the Chantry, twisted by Vengeance, no more than a brood mother for this jostling, crowding being that liked to kick him right in the ribs --

Hawke chuckled. He foolishly believed that the worst had passed. “I’m sorry about what happened. He won’t go to the templars. He was just --”

Anders sat back, going chilly. “Don’t defend him. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Okay.”

Anders’s face was cloudy again. “Do you think he was wrong? Really, truly wrong?”

“You didn’t ask for this.”

“I could have put a stop to it. I had the potion mixed, everything was ready. Do you wonder if he was right -- if I’ve done this to trap you?”

“No,” Hawke said firmly.

Anders wove his fingers together nervously. He knew what he was. Time to own up. “He’s not all wrong.”

“What?” Hawke was confused, and suddenly very still.

“Justice used to rail at me for my selfishness. For how little thought I gave to others, how happy I was to ignore this world and its problems. How quickly I dropped things when they became difficult. I’m not a brave man. I’m not a good man. Justice made me see that.”

Hawke was shaking his head in disagreement, but Anders ignored him.

“I ran from the Grey Wardens. I almost ran from Kirkwall, after that girl. If you hadn’t asked me to stay, I would have been long gone. Abandoned my cause. I said I feared hurting innocents, but what I was really thinking was... it was too much work, to keep fighting Justice. To fight the Chantry. Let Justice do it. I would have disappeared and he would have taken control. I would have let him. I only hung on because of you. I… wanted you. More than anything. Complete selfishness. So you see... I haven’t changed a bit.”

“Anders --”

“No, listen. When this happened, I realized… this was something I could _use_. It would bind us together so I couldn’t run again.” Anders couldn’t meet Hawke’s eyes. It was hard to look at someone as you twisted in the knife. “For once in my life, I would see something through. Even if I wanted out. Even if I was miserable.”

“Are you miserable?” Hawke asked carefully.

A long pause and Hawke wanted to grab him, force Anders to look him in the face. By Andraste, if this was a mistake -- he glanced down to the broad swell of Anders’s robes. If it was a mistake, it was far too late.

“Are you miserable?” he asked again, his voice harder.

Anders looked at him too honestly.

Hawke’s breath caught. He felt as if he had just slipped on ice, a whole-body shock as his sense of balance failed.

He had been building the narrative of their lives in his head, and now Anders was knocking the foundation away. If they loved each other, if they were happy, Hawke had been certain the rest would follow. No matter the difficulties and bad fortunes that came their way, if they were devoted, they would win out. Now Anders was telling him - this wasn’t what he wanted? This was ‘too hard’? That if he could, he would give them up and escape? That he was _miserable_.

Hawke was silent as the wheels turned and everything crashed down. He didn’t dare look at Anders.

Anders’s hands brushed awkwardly at Hawke’s sleeves. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay?” Hawke asked, a touch briskly.

“Yes.” Anders was quiet with shame.

“You’ll be all right here?”

Anders, small and guilty, “Yes.”

Hawke got to his feet, descended to the main floor, and made for the front door. He couldn’t stay in this house a minute longer. He needed space to breathe.

Anders didn’t ask where he was going. He sat on the steps and thought.

* * *

Varric’s palatial suite in the Hanged Man. He and Hawke were ensconced at one corner of Varric’s low table. Hawke was staring into the fire over his pint glass. Varric was trying to head things off before Hawke went teary-eyed.

“Look, Hawke. It’s a dangerous combination. Fenris is a mage-hating misery guts, and Anders, well, he was never going to be all sunshine and stability.”

Hawke slammed his glass down. He was more afraid than angry. “You warned me.”

Varric drew a line across the table with the flat of his hand. “Forget about that now. It won’t help.”

“I thought it was okay. I mean, I know how impossible this must be for him ... but I thought we were working together, that we wanted the same thing. That we were happy. That he loved me.”

“Have another drink.” On the whole, that was often the best advice to give a man during a row. Prop him up with a few ales, but not too many, just enough so that his real feelings made themselves known beyond all of the confusion and defenses. Then make sure he went home to talk it out. Tried and true. Varric prided himself on being a damned good marriage counselor.

“If he feels trapped... if he hates me...”

“He doesn’t hate you. Blondie is hard to work out, but he doesn’t hate you. Maybe he hates himself, but that’s understandable. He’s done some stupid things in his time.”

“I don’t care what he’s done.”

“Make sure he knows it.”

“How? He doubts everything I tell him.” Not strictly true, but that’s how Hawke was feeling tonight. Hurt, mistrusted, and lonely. “I’d do anything.”

“I’m sure you’ll get the chance. He’ll do something stupid again, something really, irredeemably stupid, and you’ll pick up the pieces.” Varric wasn’t naive when it came to desperation. Anders had all the signs. Dangerous man to know. Still, he couldn’t help but like ‘im. Varric had a soft spot for things that needed looking after.

Hawke rattled his empty glass. “Can I have another?”

“I think you’ve had enough. Time to go home, Hawke.”

Hawke shook his head.

“None of that. You’re the Champion of Kirkwall. Go home and sort things out, even if you’d rather face a dragon with a toothache.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Future warnings: Chapters 12 and 13 deal with (technical) character death, loss, mention of suicide, and angst. Those who would like to finish the story but don't wish to read those parts can pick it up again with chapter fourteen.
> 
> And thank you very much for reading! :)

_Hightown_

Hawke made his way back from the Hanging Man slowly, thinking, but not so deeply as to miss that he was being watched. He deliberately slowed his steps, feeling the invisible strings between himself and his observer, knowing by instinct that the watcher had something to say to him. He was lingering beneath a broad stone overpass and the distant bells were sounding eleven when his unseen companion accosted him.

“Hawke.”

Hawke looked into the deep shadow of the Hightown arch. He could see tendrils of silver in the blackness, pushing away from the wall and moving toward him, and then Fenris stepped into the half-light.

“Fenris. Is stalking me in the dark your new hobby?”

“I wanted to speak with you alone. Away from his influence.”

Hawke re-played the evening in his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

His reproach didn’t phase Fenris, who shook his head slowly. “You’re in danger.”

“I’m not. Only he’s in any danger. Stay out of things that don’t concern you.”

“Your safety concerns me, Hawke. You said we were friends.” Still a strange word to Fenris. He wasn’t sure it fit. _Something_ had driven him to seek Hawke out again. He wanted Hawke to be safe. He had needed to see Hawke. He didn’t want anger mouldering between them. Was that friendship?

“We _are_ friends,” Hawke was insisting. “So listen to me when I say you’ve got no idea what’s going on.”

“Educate me, then.”

Hawke paused. He wanted to be succinct. Leave no doubt in Fenris’s mind. “It’s human. It’s a girl. We’re going to have a daughter. He didn’t choose for this to happen, but here we are. The last thing I need is you upsetting him. It’s hard enough, already.”

Be that as it may, there was one single fact that Fenris had sunk his teeth into and wouldn’t it let go. “He’s dangerous.”

“So am I,” Hawke said simply.

Friends, but the mage would always be a divide between them. “You can swear to me that this is... a good thing?”

Hawke hesitated, remembering the words he and Anders had exchanged, the fears and doubts and...

Fenris tilted his head cannily, and his self-satisfaction was deafening in the silence.

No.

“It’s a good thing.” Hawke swore it on faith. _We’ll make it a good thing._ Hawke was instantly full of determination to go home, and promise anything Anders wanted, and convince him. Anders was a better man than he thought he was. In his entire life, Anders had never been allowed to define himself, freely commit himself, just _be_ , but there was goodness and strength there. Hawke was sure of it. Anders just needed the safety and security to find it.

Fenris watched the emotions playing on Hawke’s face, obvious even in the night, and Hawke’s eyes catching light from the soft street lanterns. Fenris made a low noise in his throat. He didn’t have words for the half-formed thoughts and feelings inside, so he just growled. (If he had the words: His friend was blinded, but not by magic. Or... yes, a type of magic, just as powerful and dangerous as the other sort, but one that was the free and open domain of every being, mage and mundane alike: love. Fenris could recognize it, even after the life he had endured, even if he had almost forgotten how to say it.)

Fenris stood aside. “Go home, then, Hawke.”

 _Amell Estate_

Hawke let himself in with his heavy key, and found Anders with a large cloak around himself. His staff was strapped to his back. He was bent over the writing desk, scribbling something. He turned around when Hawke came in.

 _Leaving._ Everything Hawke had been rehearsing and building up in his head vanished. His pride revolted, mostly out of fear, and soft feelings were pushed aside. He hated cowardice.

“Going somewhere?” Hawke asked, sounding too controlled, too cold, even to his own ears.

Anders was equally guarded. “A message came. A few young apprentices, practically children, just escaped the Circle. They’re on their way to the clinic.”

This night of ups and downs was too much for Hawke. Since returning from Aveline’s office, he’d been by turns scared and angry, and it had worn away all of his patience. He wanted to _hit_ something. He wanted Anders to be _still_ for one Andraste-burning moment so they could talk. “It’s late. Surely they can stay out of sight until --”

A shake of Anders’s head, as he shrugged a shoulder and reached back to make sure his staff was easily to hand. “The templars have their phylacteries. Time isn’t on their side.”

Hawke growled his disapproval. “Why should you go? You’re always bragging about your associates. Let them handle this.”

Anders missed the insult. His mind was on unhappy things. “Karl... told them about me. Told them that when they made it out, they could trust me.” There were reasons _not_ to go, but even stronger was the feeling that he must. He owed... He hadn’t been able to save Karl, but if he could get these children to safety, then Karl -- and Anders’s memories of him -- might both rest a little easier.

Hawke heard the catch in Anders’s voice as he said Karl’s name. He understood this was an echo from the past that Anders couldn’t ignore, and because he was still put out, still insecure, it made him angry. At a dead man. Because he wanted Anders to himself, but seemed doomed never to have him. There would always be someone -- or something -- else. “All right,” Hawke said, grudgingly. “I’ll come along.”

 _Maker take **you** , too,_ Anders snapped to himself. He had no time for this. There were things much more important than him and Hawke. When he spoke, he was harsh and removed. “The first sign of someone who so obviously isn’t a mage could knock everything down. They’re scared children. And you smell like an alehouse.” He turned his nose away. “I’ll do this alone.”

Anders started toward the cellar’s door and Hawke followed.

“Don’t go.”

Anders’s eyes narrowed and his face -- and heart -- set hard at the command. One thing he wouldn’t stand was being _ordered_. Not even by Hawke. “Try to stop me,” Anders said.

They reached the door. Hawke’s hand lashed out in front of Anders, clamping over the handle. Anders stopped short and glared. A blue glow swirled in his irises, but he fought Justice back. This was his battle. His and Hawke’s wills wrestled as they stared at each other.

Hawke wasn’t sure of his next move, here. He had rather grabbed the tiger by the tail. Anders was furious, but -- how could he let Anders go? He wasn’t fit, he should be out of it until... at least until... Hawke should keep him here.

With a guilty start, Hawke realized that was it, wasn’t it? Whatever his motives, from love or fear, it made him just as bad as the rest of them. Locking mages up for “protection”, for their own good. Anders didn’t want to be leashed. He was desperate to be his own man, _was_ his own man, and this was his work, his calling. His fight. Hawke couldn’t stand in his way.

Hawke relented. He wouldn’t imprison Anders here, he wouldn’t have him on sufferance. Let him go and do what he had to. _And please, Maker, keep them safe._

Hawke’s hand was still on the door handle, and he pulled it open. The smell of old timber, dust, and things left in the dark wafted into the hall as light from the house spilled down the cellar stairs.

Anders glanced at Hawke, holding open the door. He wouldn’t have to fight his way out after all. Anders tilted his head to him. Not quite gratitude, but it was all the regard Anders was prepared to give him this evening.

A wary ceasefire was thus declared, and Hawke’s anger rapidly gave way. Worry took another turn. “You’ll come back?” he asked. He honestly wasn’t sure.

He couldn’t breathe in the long pause that followed.

Anders finally nodded. “Yes.”

A lantern was hanging next to the staircase. Anders grabbed it and set it alight with a brief flash of flame. He made his way carefully down the stairs.

* * *

Hawke almost followed him. He got his boots on, started strapping on his plate mail, and then realized that he could make things very much worse. He didn’t have a feel for this side of Anders’s life, and nothing brought tragedy quicker than fools rushing in. This was Anders’s sphere, they were his people, his connections. He had good instincts and quick reflexes. He could take care of himself. Hawke worked to get the hall’s fire lit and explained this all to the walls and to Dog, who had slunk to Hawke’s side when Anders left.

Just after midnight, there was a sharp rap on the door. Dog perked up his ears cheerfully and Hawke, confused, went to see who was knocking at this hour.

It was Aveline. “Is Anders home?” she asked without preliminaries.

Hawke swept the quiet Hightown courtyard. She was alone, no contingent of guardsmen or templars with her. It probably wasn’t an arrest. “Yes,” he lied.

She looked relieved. “Keep him here.”

“What’s going on?”

“The templars are moving into Darktown. I thought Anders might be...” She hadn’t seen Anders in months. Who knew what he might be up to? Whatever was going on in the city tonight, she felt sure he would be in the thick of it.

“No, he’s here,” Hawke said.

Aveline saw the look in Hawke’s eyes, then, and knew that he wasn’t going to offer to prove it. She felt a pang of regret for her friend.

“Thank you, Aveline. Goodnight.” His face was overcast, statue-like.

Aveline smiled at him, a little sadly. “Goodnight, Hawke.”

When questioned later about the events of that night (over and over, for hours, in a small, hot room in the Templar Hall), Aveline maintained that both the Champion and the apostate had been home all evening. She had stopped in for dinner and hadn’t left until well after midnight.

Nice thing about being Captain of the Guard, your version of events tended to solidify all of the hazy, conflicting memories among your officers... and husband.

 _Darktown_

Hawke emerged from the estate’s cellars and looked left and right. The clinic’s doors were shut. Hawke crossed carefully to the doors and opened one, his hand on his sword’s hilt.

The clinic was still, but not peaceful. There were signs of a fight. A lantern had spilled over and its shallow splash of oil was burning on the damp ground. Hawke kicked aside the lantern and carefully stepped into the interior.

Further inside - three dead templars. One’s helmet was crumpled in, as if an ogre had gotten a hand around it and crushed. He could hope for a mundane explanation, but no petty Darktown thugs would dare to take on the Templar Order, and no ordinary weapons could do that. Maker.

Hawke did a quick once-over of the interior, but aside from the dead, the clinic was empty. No Anders. If they had come for him here... Hawke listened closely to the shouts in distant, echoing parts of Darktown’s warren. He followed the commotion.

The dim, seeping passages were deserted. The denizens of Darktown had crawled into their holes when the templars arrived, like wriggling creatures escaping sudden, violent light when a rock is overturned. Hawke moved unopposed toward the secret entryway to the Gallows, was within two streets of it, when just ahead, around the corner, Hawke heard yells and saw reflections ricocheting off the damp walls. He broke into a run.

Hawke skidded around the corner and there he was.

Anders. Justice. _Vengeance_ , all blue light and fury, his staff clutched in his hand and standing firm.

The keen stink of fire-heated metal, burning flesh, and running fat hung in the air, with that particular vibration that signalled a recent maelstrom of magic. It made Hawke’s skin crawl.

There were templar bodies -- pieces of them -- at Justice’s feet. Hawke held up his hands as Justice rounded on him, growling.

“Anders, it’s me.”

Justice knew him well. This was no time for pleasantries. “They would trap us like rats. Drown us in silence, end us.”

Hawke jerked his head, indicating the way he had come. “Let’s go. We can’t stay here.”

Justice’s eyes flared and he snarled in approval. He twirled his staff to indicate the dark city around them. “Can you hear, Hawke? My brothers and sisters are crying out for me. Come. We have much to do.”

Hawke hadn’t come to join Justice on some mad rampage. “ _Anders_. I’m here to take you home.”

Justice ignored this and strode past him. Anders’s body was his vehicle, his puppet, and Justice was moving without care. He was power let loose without regard for the mortal frame. They were taking the slime-slick stairs two at a time, heading deeper into the maze of streets, and Hawke was hard-pressed to keep up.

“Justice, Anders isn’t well.”

“I won’t have others suffer for his weakness.” They reached the top of the stairs and Justice looked this way and that. So many evils, so much cleansing needed. He didn’t know where to turn first, where to begin to sate his roaring hunger for justness and right.

Hawke made it to the landing beside him. He grabbed at Anders’s sleeve. “Be careful --”

Footsteps. Justice raised his staff, and Hawke turned to meet them. It was a lone guardsman, one that Hawke immediately recognized; a young recruit named Wil. A sensible young man, and one of Dog’s favorites among the recruits. They had spoken several times, as Dog always dragged him over when Hawke came to fetch him. One of Aveline’s favorites, too: behind closed doors, she called him promising. He was meant to be reporting in but had gotten confused in the tunnels of Darktown. His uniform was too large for him. He was young enough that he might still grow into it.

Wil saw Hawke and looked relieved. Then he looked past Hawke and saw Justice, looking terrible and alight with rage. He stopped short, eyes going wide.

“Wil -” Hawke began.

“Ser Hawke, look out --” Wil reached for his sword, opened his mouth to call for help.

 _If he raises the alarm_ \-- without another thought, without a pause, Hawke drew the balanced, heavy knife from his belt and flung it. The blade sunk into the young guardsman’s throat and the kid blinked stupidly. He raised his hand, felt the leather-wrapped handle protruding, made a strangled, wet sound, and collapsed. Hawke advanced, put his foot on the kid’s shoulder, and met Wil’s wide eyes, rolling fearfully in their sockets. He knew what was coming.

Hawke yanked out the blade with a twist, severing the artery as he went, and he watched the life go out of the boy.

He hadn’t deserved death.

Hawke shoved it away as guilt to deal with later, and turned around, hoping Justice hadn’t left. He was still there.

In fact it wasn’t Justice, but Anders, staring at the body in recognition and something like horror. Wil, Hawke had called the guardsman. Hawke had spoken about him. _Maker_ , he didn’t look old enough to shave. Anders looked to Hawke, who was unreadable stone.

“It was him or us.” Hawke wiped the blade on Wil’s sleeve and slid his knife back into its sheath. _Him or you._

Anders felt a shudder. This must be what it was like for Hawke when Justice came to the fore. Such frightening coldness. Someone else entirely.

Then Hawke was crossing to him, grabbing him, and holding him tightly.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Anders twisted an arm free, made a fist, and knocked it against Hawke’s armored shoulder. He was glad to see Hawke, but he liked breathing, too. Plate mail had very little place in a bear-hug.

Hawke released him. They heard commotion not far away, getting closer. “We have to get out of here. More people are going to die if we don’t.” A lot more, if it came to it.

Anders nodded. There were no escapees. It had been a trap. He felt no remorse for the templars, didn’t mind the blood on his own hands, but Hawke had already killed an innocent boy tonight. His corruption was spreading. “Okay,” Anders agreed quietly.

“If we can get back to the clinic, I’ve got a key to the cellars.”

Anders pulled himself together and looked past Hawke’s shoulder. “We can. Come on, there’s a back way.”

* * *

They double-bolted the doors behind them, and once they were safely back in the main part of the house, Hawke moved to help Anders out of his cloak. He was wearing his grey-feathered outer robe beneath it, even though he couldn’t buckle it. Hawke ran his hands inside the collar, to Anders’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze, and smoothed down to his waist, brushing aside the leather straps and round, golden clasps. Leandra was annoyed by all of the recent activity, letting Anders know with a lot of fussy twisting. Hawke felt her under his hands.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” Hawke wanted to touch, but Anders stepped away from him. He could smell burning hair and flesh in his clothes, and he grimaced. “I told you not to follow me.”

“Aveline showed up, said that things were kicking off in Darktown.”

“So she knew.” Anders crossed his arms and frowned. Another mark against her, in the paranoid carnival that was Anders’s imagination. He glanced to the cellar doors again, making sure the latches were in place. “It was a trap. I don’t know what Meredith is planning, but we’ve been compromised. I’ve got to get the word out.”

“They were after you?” They were safe here, together, but Hawke felt the weight of his sword across his back. Let them try to come through him. “Who told them -”

“I’m not sure. Someone who knew about … me and Karl.” Perhaps Karl himself, in that time he had been docile and at their mercy. The thought made his gorge rise, made him almost sick with hate. Nothing was sacred.

“What else do they know?” Hawke asked. If they had to flee Kirkwall tonight, they would. There was a cache outside the city walls that Varric had helped arrange. Coin and the bare bones equipment needed for an overland expedition. Anders was in no shape to travel, but they would think of something.

“I don’t know. I don’t think... I think this was old intelligence, nothing to do with Leandra. One of them got close, and he seemed... surprised.” Anders suddenly smiled very coldly, with a certain wicked relish. _And then, Maker, he had screamed._ “You can put down your sword. I don’t know what made them decide to come after me tonight, but it’s finished. I’ve got some work to do.”

“Work?” Hawke asked, as he rather hesitantly slid the wide sword out of its clasps. “It’s after midnight. Let’s go to bed.”

Anders shook his head. “I need to rework the cypher. It’s obviously been broken. And then send the word out. I don’t know who we can trust, but we have to tell our friends to be cautious, and tell them to bring forward their suspicions.” That all meant character-switch mapping, a lot of rewriting, and deciding who he trusted most among his associates. “I’ll be a few hours. Don’t wait up.”

“You won’t go out again?” The worry was nagging Hawke. Anders was still distant and distracted. He might not even want to be here. Hawke hadn’t forgotten their argument, and part of him was still afraid that Anders would bolt.

“No.” Anders saw his look. Hawke didn’t trust him. “I promise. Can you bring me some clothes? These...”

Hawke nodded and went upstairs to fetch a change of clothes, while Anders got to work. Hawke returned with the robes, then left Anders settled and busy in the library, and went around checking the windows and doors. His presence was more security than all the locks and bars, but he felt better with them in place. He told Dog to stay alert, looked in on Anders, was once again told to clear off and get some sleep, and retired to bed.

Anders worked for some hours, scribbling out a new code and arranging papers in piles to dispatch at first light. He had been tired when he started, now he had moved through that and into a buzz of exhausted adrenaline. Justice wouldn’t let him sleep until this was done.

He finally got the last of the communiques written and hauled himself upstairs just before four. Sitting had gotten uncomfortable, particularly in his back, and climbing the stairs was even more so. He paused halfway in annoyance, leaning on his staff. The way Justice had been throwing his body around, it was no wonder he was sore. He wanted a long, hot bath, but the thought of hauling wood from the closet to the small furnace and waiting for the cisterns to heat was exhausting.

He made do with a towel bath, getting the grime of Darktown off of his skin and the smell out of his hair, and entered their bedroom. Hawke was face down and sound asleep. His sword was propped at his beside.

The fire in the hearth was still strong, but Hawke had left a candle lit by Anders’s wardrobe, just in case. He had hung Anders’s outer robe to air. Anders shifted into his night clothes and blew out the candle.

Hawke turned over as he got into bed, opening his eyes sleepily. Anders shushed him and curled up, and in a few moments Hawke’s breath was deep and even again.

Anders kept still, eyebrows pulled together, listening to the fire crackling and Hawke breathing behind him. Now that he was lying quietly, he could feel more low aching. Cramping that peaked and ebbed. Different than the practice tightenings that had been readying him for some weeks. Leandra was going through her usual routine of rolling and stretching, getting comfortable. He wished _he_ could get comfortable.

Anders closed his eyes tightly and began to count Hawke’s breaths. It was a good way of estimating the time. Twelve breaths a minute, about a hundred breaths between peaks. Sometimes more or less. No pattern, which immediately made him feel much better. False starts were the norm, thank the Maker. He just needed sleep. Long, ridiculous day. He pulled a pillow over his head to muffle everything and nodded off.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Not too graphic, but not pleasant.  
> Future warning(s): Chapters 12 and 13 can be difficult going, and include (technical) character death and loss. Those who want to skip those parts can resume reading at chapter 14, where things get brighter, if they wish to finish the story. :)

The sun was up when Anders was nudged awake by more pain. He hadn’t been sleeping peacefully. Not that he ever did. His brain was full of vivid dreams and nightmare glimpses, the usual murmurings of the taint in his blood. He always took those in stride; they evaporated like cobwebs in a gale soon after he opened his eyes. But the other fears, closer to his heart - templars, their daughter - stayed with him even after he woke.

It wasn’t long after sunrise, from the tilt of the shadows on the wall and the deep, rich color of the light striping the ceiling. Six-thirty, maybe seven o’clock. Three hours. Hawke was snoring and had rolled the covers around him.

Anders waited the it out, twisted over, pulled a share of the blankets back from Hawke, and started to drift. Not for long, as that uncomfortable clenching sensation built again, pulling sharply at his spine. He gave up on sleep.

He got up and wrapped himself in a dark robe. It had been one of Hawke’s presents during his first winter up in Hightown. This part of the city was bluffed above the rest of Kirkwall and thus laid open to the brunt of the winter winds. He tied the robe around himself, didn’t like the feeling, and pulled the soft cloth belt free. He grabbed his staff, too. Force of habit, and he hadn’t quite left the nightmares behind.

He stepped over Dog on his way out of the bedroom. Dog rose to his paws, shook himself, and followed Anders as he went downstairs and put out the small statue that meant the house had messages to send. He waited for the courier to knock, pacing around the entry hall. About twelve strides from wall to wall. The courier arrived, Anders handed over the notes, went to the kitchens and forced himself to eat. Then, still listless, he wandered to the library. He had always meant to organize it.

Dog followed him again and sat attentively, watching Anders as he started moving stacks of books to the floor and tables. Without anyone else to talk to, and a strange amount of nervous energy, Anders found himself chattering at the mabari: “He buys crates of books and just throws them on the shelves. Finding the one you need shouldn’t be up to the Maker. Say what you will about the tower - I do - but at least the libraries were in order. Now: history over here, I think. And biography here...” And so on, for an hour, trying to ignore his discomfort.

When he had to stop what he was doing and breathe, Dog whined gently.

When he caught his breath, Anders rolled his eyes. “Yes. Thank you. I don’t need your input.”

Dog was still staring at him with intelligence.

“I know that look,” Anders said, glaring darkly at the dog. “You’re thinking ‘I get Hawke! Like a boy-and-his-mabari story! What is it, boy? Has Anders fallen down a well?’ Don’t you dare. Wake him up and I’ll turn you into a cat - no, into a nug.”

Dog whined again, more plaintively this time.

He stooped to gather up a few more biographies, and set about alphabetizing them. “That’s right. I wouldn’t even do you the honor of turning you into a cat.”

The mabari’s furry, pointed ears sunk.

“And a fat lot of help you were, yesterday. You like Fenris, right? But friends don’t usually come in through the windows.” Second-floor windows with bars on. Weird little elf.

A contrite yip from Dog.

Anders gave the hound a look, and then winced and hissed. _Andraste’s overbite_ , ow. “Go away, you miserable, smelly beast.”

* * *

Hawke rolled over and reached for Anders. Habitual. Small snuggling throughout the night, as they both woke and fell back to sleep. Anders’s side of the bed was empty, though the sheets were still warm. Hawke looked to his feathered coat, which was still hanging over the door of the wardrobe. He couldn’t have gone far, then. He was too fond of the feathered monstrosity to leave it behind. Probably just a trip to the privy... or the pantry. Hawke chuckled into his pillow. Anders felt there was something humiliating about needing snacks at strange hours, so Hawke never let on that he knew Anders had been down to the kitchen. (He also kept to himself that he believed it was _the cutest thing in all of Thedas_.)

Hawke drifted and woke later, unsure how much time had passed. Still no Anders, and now the blankets had gone cold. That got him out of bed and sent him looking.

Anders was standing in the library, leaning forward on the table that was covered in stacks of books, staring into the lit candle. When he sensed Hawke’s presence -- nothing arcane, just intuition -- he picked up a quill pen to look busy. Deciding that the masquerade wasn’t going to last long, he put it down again and straightened up.

“Everything all right?” Hawke asked.

Anders looked at him and shrugged. No, every syllable of his body language said.

To his credit, Hawke didn’t panic. He was excited, his stomach seemed to drop through the floor, but he smiled. The smile faded a little. It was the first week of Firstfall, and the year’s fast-approaching end was obvious in the chill sweeping over Kirkwall from the west. But Anders had estimated a time just before the Haring feasts, more than a month away. “Is this okay? Isn’t it... soon?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” At Hawke’s sharp look, he shrugged again. “Everything should be fine. A little early. ...I thought it would stop.”

“But it hasn’t?”

“How perceptive you are. No, I’m just wandering about for my health.” He looked very tired.

“Maybe you should sleep some more.” Hawke turned his palms up, as if offering the admittedly flimsy plan.

“‘Sleep some more’? You’re full of good ideas.” Anders pulled irritably at his robe and nightshirt. “Why didn’t I think of that? Right, I did. But it _hurts_.”

“I’m sorry. Can I...?”

Anders held up his hand. “It’s too distracting, talking. Just... go away.”

“Okay.”

“Wait.” Anders was running through the mental list of things that needed to be done. He thought he’d have more time. “We’ve got our story straight?”

“Varric’s been spreading rumors for weeks. He heard from a friend of a friend that after a ball, the dashing Champion was seen climbing in a noblewoman’s window. He’ll tell a good tale.”

Anders nodded. “What about...”

“Oh, Aveline and Merrill will get the real story. From Varric.” A corner of Hawke’s mouth pulled up in a smile. “All we have to do is mourn your poor, heretofore unknown sister, and raise her child as our own. Our favorite dwarf bard assures me Merrill and Aveline will be moved to tears.” Hawke tilted his head thoughtfully. “I do feel a _bit_ guilty, making up the poor girl only to kill her off. But that’s what you do when you’re spinning a story, Varric says.”

Anders wasn’t listening. He had gone very tense and quiet. He put a hand out to brace himself on the chair back, and Hawke stepped closer.

Anders shook his head. “I’m fine. Leave me alone. Please.”

“I’ll be in mother’s room, sorting things.” Hawke could finally bring himself to go in. It was still difficult, but knowing they needed the room for happier times ahead helped him overcome the pain of it.

He went to the door, heard footsteps behind, and Anders said, again, “Wait.”

Hawke turned back.

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m not miserable. I’m happy. I’ve never been happier. Please don’t think...” Anders looked like a man waiting on a death sentence.

“I know.” Hawke had forgiven, but hadn’t forgotten, last night. It was something they needed to confront. This wasn’t the time, though.

“And...”

Hawke raised a questioning eyebrow as Anders trailed off. His thoughts were scattered and slippery, he couldn’t keep hold of any of them.

Hawke was still staring at him curiously, and Anders frowned in annoyance. He put his fingertips to his forehead helplessly. “Sorry. I can’t think. I... forget what I was going to say.” He raised his shoulders uncomfortably, crossing his arms. “I don’t know what to do.”

As if Hawke had any idea. He smiled bravely. “Nothing. Whatever feels right. Should I send for the healer?”

“I did. She’ll be here in the afternoon.”

If it was up to him, Hawke would have her there that instant, but he had to trust Anders knew what was best. He reached for Anders, but Anders shook his head again.

Anders didn’t want to be stared at, or pitied. He wanted to be left alone to get on with it. “Could you arrange a bath?”

Thank the Maker, something to do. Hawke nodded. “Come up when you’re ready. Or... call me. Or whatever works best --”

Anders smiled at him, cutting the nervy ramble short. “Okay.”

Hawke left to starting moving wood into the furnace, and Anders went back to sorting books.

***

By the time the healer arrived, three in the afternoon, Anders had spent hours upstairs immersed in the deep stone bathtub. He was half asleep, half meditating, listening to the hidden flames below the cast iron cistern in the corner of the wash room.

In the library, Hawke tried to take up where Anders had left off, organizing the shelves. He was outwardly calm, but inwardly frantic. He had put off thinking about today, and now he felt hopelessly unprepared. He should have asked more questions. Been more involved. He should have... Dog, lounging by the hearth, following Hawke’s pacing with his big, brown, canine eyes.

The healer arrived. She was short, wrinkled, and unassuming, but sturdy, and had moved through Hightown virtually unnoticed. No one had given her any trouble. It was a facade built with long practice: she was both apostate and elf, but she had lived many years, and learned to be strong without being threatening. Defiant without drawing ire. She greeted the Champion respectfully, letting him shake her hand for far too long, the way fathers-to-be often did, giddy that they finally saw the cavalry cresting the hill.

Hawke lead her upstairs, knocked on the bathroom door, and announced her. She moved past him, and he was politely told to go amuse himself. She closed the door in his face. Hawke hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of Anders. The usual proprieties were being observed, it seemed, even though there was nothing _usual_ about the situation.

Banished to the lower floor, Hawke returned to the books. It seemed like a waste of time. It couldn’t possibly matter, not now. But it was something to do.

While he worked he kept an ear turned. He couldn’t hear a thing. Occasionally Dog’s ears twitched or his head raised as if he _could_ , and Hawke stopped dead in his tracks and listened with all of his might. Nothing.

He was incidental, persona non grata, unneeded. Part of him was relieved, part of him found this limbo a complete hell. When he heard the healer coming down to the kitchens he asked her how things were, but the curtain of silence had fallen into place. She merely smiled and told him all was well.

So it went.

He abandoned the books in half-finished, scattered piles, and moved into the small armory.

Three hours later, at seven night-bells, Hawke had given his armor a thrice-shine. Bodahn had left it all in excellent condition before he and Sandal departed on their vacation, and it had only seen light use in the meantime. He had stayed close to home and Anders the last few weeks, not running off to the Wounded Coast after every tantalizing rumor. He looked at his distorted reflection in one of the gauntlets and wondered if the metal would stand up to a fourth buff and shine. The smell of the thick, resin-like polish was giving him a headache. Maybe he should go for a walk before it was full-dark. Not far, of course. Just some fresh air. He looked toward the door just as a light knock sounded on the open doorjamb.

The healer. Hawke leapt guiltily to his feet, feeling for an instant like he had been caught plotting a prison break.

“He could use your help.”

“My help?” Hawke joined her at the door, towering over her four-foot-some frame. She had probably stood five foot in her youth, but she had carried her life’s dual burdens; being born in this place, this time, mage and non-human. Yet she was the one who seemed solid as a rock, while Hawke was almost shivering with the buzz of his nerves. “What can I do?” he asked.

“Come keep him company.”

Dog was up, too. Hawke told him to stay, followed the healer, and realized he couldn’t even remember her name. Anders had introduced them once, when she had come to check on him. Hawke hadn’t spent much time speaking with her. He hadn’t, after all, really expected to… participate. But now she was ushering him up the stairs and toward the bedroom door.

“He’s afraid,” she explained, as she made her way more slowly up the stairs and he politely curtailed his strides to keep pace with her. “He’s not covered much ground the last few hours. I’m not sure he wholly trusts me.” She wasn’t at all put out. It wasn’t personal. He was long past trusting anyone. She glanced knowingly at the Champion. Almost anyone.

They reached the bedroom door, and Hawke was hesitant to go in. This wasn’t his place. He didn’t know anything about this, or what Anders needed. He would be worse than useless.

“It won’t work if you’re tense, too,” she said gently. She was smiling at him, now. Everything about her exuded confidence, wisdom, helping to quell his nerves. She knew what she was doing. This was for Anders. Anders needed his help. All right.

“Go in. I’ll be back in a few minutes. He needs to eat something.”

* * *

The bedroom was dim. There was a metal shade propped in front of the fireplace, keeping the light low and diffusing over the floor stones. Hawke’s eyes adjusted as he looked apprehensively around the room. “Anders?”

It was remarkably serene. Anders was kneeling beside the bed on a cushion, arms folded on the mattress, head down. He didn’t look up as Hawke entered, and Hawke crossed the room quietly, not wanting to disturb the hush.

Anders looked at him through the gap between the fringe of his hair and his arm, with uncertain comprehension. Like seeing someone familiar, but very far away. He was somewhere else. He had been at this hours. He didn’t know why it should be so slow. Why sometimes pain came every three minutes, then seven, four, four, just when he thought he had found a rhythm, eight minutes, and he sat waiting and couldn’t look at the healer out of embarrassment. He was tired, ashamed that he wasn’t... _better_ at this, and jumpy at the slightest sounds.

He raised his head as Hawke knelt on the floor beside him. He had one of Hawke’s leather gloves in his mouth, to keep himself silent - and it felt better to _bite_. Hawke noticed and laughed.

“You’re as bad as the dog.”

Anders spat it out. “Sorry.”

Hawke was still smiling. “No, go ahead. Whatever you want.” He was more sure, now. This wasn’t as frightening as he thought. Not really so bad.

Anders smiled back, realizing how ridiculous he must look. He tensed, then, and any levity evaporated. He turned away, buried his face in the coverlet and tried to stifle the low noise he was making.

Hawke went cold, watching Anders struggle. He noticed now the tremble in his legs, the pained bunch of his shoulders, the sweat that made his white nightshirt stick to his body. Hawke wasn’t sure whether he should touch him, not touch him, speak, or be silent, and the minute of work for Anders seemed to last hours as Hawke sat by, feeling wretched and useless.

Anders looked back toward the door with nervous eyes. Justice had fled this mortal scene, all muscles, fluids, the most unpleasant aspects of flesh-bound existence. He had locked himself apart somewhere and without him, in pain and exhausted, Anders was afraid. He tried to make himself small.

Hawke saw him cower. Maker, he didn’t know what to do. He just had to hold the fort, until the healer returned. A dark house robe was draped over Anders, slipping from his shoulders. Hawke pulled it back up and smoothed it out, feeling Anders’s tense back beneath.

The door beat against its frame in a draft, and Anders startled.

“It’s okay. Just the door.”

Anders rested his head on his elbow, still staring to the bedroom’s entryway. “I keep expecting Meredith to burst in. I dreamt...” That he was alone and trapped, and she was just _watching_. “If this were the tower, there would already be a templar waiting. More than one.”

“What?” Hawke asked. Anders hadn’t shrugged him off, so he kept his hands on Anders’s shoulders.

“That’s what they did. They locked the poor girl in a room with them, and...” It had happened to one of the apprentices, not much older than he was.

Hawke was very close to him, arresting Anders’s gaze. “This isn’t the Circle. You’re free. We can go anywhere you like. Just say what you want.”

It was indescribable, hearing that strength. The reminder that Hawke stood between him and them. Now, when he felt utterly vulnerable, that meant so much it brought tears to his eyes.

Hawke saw his eyes glistening, and misunderstood. “I know it’s hard. Tell me how to help.”

The hours, particularly the last frustrated few, had ground down the morning’s determination into fear. His insides felt like they were running a marathon. Constant, burning ache, like when he had swum Lake Calenhad. Not to the near shore where they had ferry guards, but the furthest reaches of the lake. He had dragged himself into the underbrush, every limb on fire. (He had scarcely been able to move the next day.) The same kind of clenched, hot, unbelievable tightness, and he just wanted it to end. He shook his head mutely.

Hawke kneaded his shoulders, leaning over him. He put a hand through Anders’s sweat-damp hair, and bent forward to kiss his neck. There was a trickle of perspiration beaded just at that place behind his ear, the crease of his jawline, that always made Anders shiver. It was some lover’s instinct, to give him a little moment of pleasure amid all the discomfort, and Hawke gave him a gentle bite and swipe of his tongue. Anders did shudder, as a lightning bolt crackled down his spine. Even now, Hawke’s touch... he didn’t get very far. It started to hurt again.

He heard Hawke talking to him softly, running his rough palms down his back. Relax and let it happen. He arched into Hawke’s hands, wanting more of that counter-pressure, and with a few short words Hawke understood and obliged.

Anders hadn’t wanted the healer to get Hawke, but suddenly he couldn’t imagine going on without him. When he could speak again: “... You’re good at this.”

Hawke had all but forgotten himself, caught up in trying to help Anders, but he felt the pride of a small victory. He wasn’t useless. Just knowing there was something he could do conquered most of his worries, and he followed the groove of Anders’s spine with the heels of his hands.

The healer returned with honey-tea and toast, and was satisfied. She had reckoned properly: once Hawke was beside him, things fell quickly into a regular march. All uphill.

* * *

Three bells, the darkest part of the night. There had been a parade of uncomfortable positions but he liked being on the floor best, kneeling in front of the fire on a stack of furs. They had dragged a chair over so he could rest. Hawke was cross-legged beside him, his elbow propped up on the chair’s seat, his hand half-numb in Anders’s grip.

Anders retreated... someplace else. Not the Fade, but that place he used to go to as a child. Somewhere in his mind, where he shut out the noisy, crowded halls around him. His own little world where there were no templars watching him and he wasn’t just one of a dozen other little suspects guilty until proven innocent.

It wasn’t the place he remembered, though. There was no sanctuary. The agony followed him. No matter how he tried to hide, it chased him down and tore into him. He found himself leaning on his earliest training. Focus, willpower. It was barely enough to keep air moving in and out of his lungs.

When the savage animal had its fill, when he thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, he was swept into the sea. The waves were terrifying. He could feel them begin, like the tideline pulling back before the flood came crashing in. He held on to Hawke’s arm, digging in his fingers because somehow Hawke was keeping his own head above water. Anders couldn’t see how, when it was so all-encompassing; deafening, blinding, strangling.

If this would stop for an hour, half an hour, he could rest and get his strength back. His training said ‘stay upright’, but his limbs were like jelly. He felt trapped. The same pains, at the same short intervals. What if it was all going nowhere? His heart was slamming in his chest, he felt claustrophobic panic rising with each squeezing sensation that wound tighter and tighter, until that searing tear down low made him cry out. He wanted to get _away_.

“Garrett,” he managed. _Help me_.

There was nothing he could do, not at this stage of the game. Anders couldn’t bear to be touched during, and collapsed forward onto the chair’s seat afterward, burying his face in the cushions or against Hawke’s arm. Hawke stroked his hair, his shoulders. They had less than half a minute to sit like that, Hawke trying to channel strength, before it began again and Anders was almost in tears in front of him.

It eased for a moment, but the stillness wouldn’t last long. Anders was ready to beg. “I’ll try again tomorrow. I promise. I just want to stop.”

Hawke smiled despite everything. “I don’t think we can. I'm sorry." He leaned in to kiss Anders's forehead. "But you’re doing it. I love you.”

Anders took this on-board. He considered silently for a few seconds. He swallowed. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Go for it,” Hawke agreed, another towel at the ready.

The healer remained nearby, aware but not interfering. Every time she intervened, Anders snapped at her and sent her away. She had heard every word, and knew the signs. She came over and called his name.

Anders gave her an evil look. Move like this, let me do that. Putting honey on his tongue so he had to swallow it. Everything hurt more when she was near. What did she want this time?

To check. Anders rested his forehead against the chair and let her quickly do her job, while Hawke massaged the back of his neck.

Good news that she reported with a smile. “Nearly at the end, Anders. It won’t be long.”

Hawke wasn’t sure Anders heard her, but the relief flooded through him like music, like finally hearing the long-awaited leitmotif in a long piece. He leaned over to look into Anders’s eyes. They weren’t focused.

“Did you hear?”

A fractional shake of his head.

“Almost done.”

But not quite yet done, because Anders’s hands scrabbled for Hawke’s again.

* * *

She was checking again, feeling around gently, when the waters opened. A good deal of blood flowed with them. She was glad the Champion didn’t see the surprise and dismay on her face, and she quickly doused her hands in the bowl of washing water.

That sudden release brought a new urge, the bearing urge, and Anders couldn’t stop himself making a low sound. This new torture almost wrung a yell out of him, and when it was through he shook his head desperately. He felt dizzy. “I don’t want...” He had both of Hawke’s hands in his.

The healer was already at the bed, arranging things. “Help him over here, Champion.”

Hawke pulled him up easily, despite his stupid, heavy, hurting body. Hawke half-supported him as his legs shook, trying to ignore the upsetting splash of red down his nightshirt.

They made it onto the bed, where a treated leather skin and blankets had been rolled out. Anders lay down and immediately hated the feeling. Spread on his back as though he were dead, as if he were helpless... that was how it all began... he pulled at Hawke’s arms and Hawke, wonderful, loving Hawke, seemed to read his mind. He slid between Anders and the headboard, propping him up against his chest with a pillow between them, and Anders grabbed his hands. Hawke checked the candle on the table in the corner, marked out with the hours. An hour until dawn.

* * *

He was staring at the high windows and the lightening of the sky beyond. The healer was between his legs. Her litany of soothing remarks had become sharper. She was worried. Hawke’s strong form was braced behind him. He let his head fall back on Hawke’s shoulder. He could smell blood. Something had gone very wrong, he could sense it amid the terrible, crushing pains that sent him half out of his mind. They weren’t ebbing and flowing anymore, he was in a constant agony that forced all the breath from his body. Hawke’s hands were in his, holding them tightly. Anders didn’t have the strength to grip back anymore. He felt cold.

If he was going to die, he was glad to be in Hawke’s arms.

Hawke was staring down at him. Anders was sucking in terrified, rapid, shallow gasps.

“Deeper breaths, Anders,” the healer reminded.

He dragged in a deep breath and looked helplessly up at Hawke, trying to telegraph that it wasn’t working. That he was sorry. He couldn’t do this.

“Good,” Hawke said, attempting a smile and assurance that he didn’t feel. He was angry, watching this. Not at Anders, of course not, but at the _powerlessness_. Everyone’s helplessness, and Anders’s suffering. Why was it taking so bloody long?

Hawke shook himself out of his darker thoughts and focused again on Anders. He brought their entwined hands up, still holding Anders’s fingers in his, and used his knuckles to brush stray, sweat-plastered strands of hair from Anders’s temple. “I’m proud of you.”

Proud of him? For what? For lying here almost insensate with the _misery_ of it... for always being too weak to finish what he started...?

Anders tried to say something to Hawke, but he couldn’t make words. The bed seemed to be tilting wildly to and fro, and he could hardly see. It was dawn. Why should it be getting darker? Another, worse squeeze started. Horrible, pressing, pushing. Like he was being wrung in someone’s hand. More blood. Torture, centered low. He could feel the hard mass of the baby, very near the world, wreathed in fiery agony. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to push past the pain, make it stop, but it went on. And on. Please, Maker. _Please._

The healer let him work for a few moments more. No progress. “Put your hands behind his knees, Champion, if you would.”

His hands fell from Hawke’s, felt out the blanket, and tried to grab it. He could barely make a fist, he was so tired. Hawke’s arms reached around him, drew his legs up with the healer’s guidance, and suddenly something inside moved. He writhed and strained back against Hawke as his muscles heaved again, independent and apathetic to his exhaustion and terror. The healer’s fingers slid inside and he finally could bear it no more and had to scream aloud.

He couldn’t see anything now. There was a ringing lightness in his head. His was turning itself inside out, too much pressure there, but so close - and finally, came free. A sudden cavernous feeling of empty, and at last relief from the terrible pressure forcing his bones and flesh apart. And then a flow of warmth that didn’t seem to stop.

The baby was in the healer’s hands, and she began to work, rubbing vigorously at the crimson-covered skin with a towel. She was checking the cord that anchored the baby to Anders, turning the infant girl over to clear her airways. She was limp.

Anders still felt like he was on a ship at sea, like everything inside was listing and sloshing. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. He shivered and listened for a cry.

Hawke glanced quickly at the silent baby, then craned his head to look at Anders. He was shaking in Hawke’s arms, which were around his chest again. Hawke looked down Anders’s body and saw the blood soaking into the blankets, a spreading, glistening stain like spilled wine in the fire light.

“Healer--” Hawke began.

The healer had been a firm, calming presence, and now her ethereal comforting crystallized into steel as she took full command. She was still calm, but she spoke in a tone Hawke had heard on the battlefield at Ostagar, when it had all gone wrong. “Ser Hawke, I need your help.” Her words set his pulse beating frantically.

Anders felt Hawke move away from him. He was laid out flat and he desperately reached after Hawke to pull him back. “What’s happening?” Anders asked, or thought he asked, but no one seemed to hear him.

Then someone’s fingers were in his mouth, pushing a wad of herbs beneath his tongue.

“ -- I need your hand like this -” A palm was laid against him. Hurt again, low in his stomach, and he tried to roll and crawl away but there was a hand at his shoulder, holding him in place. If he had the strength, he would have wept. It was meant to be _over_. The heel of Hawke’s hand was digging hard into his belly, and the bitter taste of herbs was flooding his mouth and making his throat burn. There was still a leak of thick fluid and he was very, very cold. His brain tried to make sense of it, beyond that bright hot ball of agony lodged in him, but he was confused. His ears were ringing. He thought of the Warden. The Joining. That had been like this.

Now, as then, the world went black.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Angst. Character death. (Technically.) Chapters 12/13 are the difficult part. For those not keen, but interested in finishing the story, Ch14 on will be easier going.

“Wake up.” The words were hurled at him with command, from someone used to being obeyed.

“Says who?” Anders asked, liltingly petulant. He was fingering the earring hanging from his right lobe. Should that be there? He shrugged. He liked it. A bit of extra shine.

“We are not through.”

Well, that wasn’t Anders’s problem. He didn’t, as a rule, let himself be bullied by disembodied voices. He ran his hands down his robes. They were dark blue, criss-crossed with gold and silver threading in brilliantly complex patterns. There was a shiny, fanned belt around his waist, and gold bracelets at his biceps, which he palmed in approval. It had been a long time since he had gotten to dress properly. He always had to be so _common_ , always _sharing their suffering_ , never putting on airs. Stepping in the same shit, living like “one of them”.

One of who? He couldn’t quite remember. Where was he, anyway? This didn’t look like any part of the Fade he had ever visited. It was inky-black and featureless. As he turned to see if there was a mirror about, he noticed a spirit. Probably a spirit. He was all kitted out in misty platemail.

Anders tilted his head at him. “Ooh, that’s nice. The bucket-on-the-head look is very popular, very now. All the best-dressed oppressors go in for it.” The templars. Bastards. Good thing they were stupid to the last man. He never had to pay them much mind. “Have you heard the one about the templar who mistook his helmet for a chamber pot?”

“Wake,” the spirit demanded again, “and take up your mantle.”

Humorless sod. “This is the _strangest_ Harrowing.” Anders snorted, then he frowned for a moment. “Wait, I’ve already done mine.” He puffed up indignantly. “Are they making us go ‘round again? That is just bloody typical.” He tugged at his thick ponytail. He knew how to play this game. They never worried about him too much; it was long-suspected he would simply _annoy_ any hungry demons away. “So, who are you?”

“I am Justice.”

When he spoke, Anders felt his own mouth forming the words. He side-eyed the spirit before him, putting his fingers to his lips curiously.

“That’s a pretty trick.” But his cockiness was faltering, he was starting to suspect something was amiss. He was young, flash, and free... and with a sudden, horrible spasm of certainty, he knew that was _wrong_.

And someone was waiting for him. He suddenly knew that, too. But who? Who would miss _him_? He had no friends at the tower. Too troublesome. For him, and for them.

“This is childish,” the spirit tolled, in his stiff, important way, like a bell clanging in the fog. “While you indulge in this infantile fantasy, our work goes undone.”

“What work?” Anders was growing afraid. He didn’t want to leave this place. He felt like himself, in here. He didn’t want to surrender that again.

And there was pain out there - wherever ‘out there’ was. (Now that he thought about it, he didn’t really know what constituted ‘in here’, either.) “Where are we?”

The spirit said nothing. The walls - if they were walls - began to shift.

“If I go back -” His body was getting heavier. The colors were fading from his robes. He felt for the earring. Gone. Weakness overtook him and his legs almost folded.

He looked around for the spirit, but he too was gone - no, not gone. The spirit was him. This strange little universe was collapsing, and a dim, greyish glow was starting to seep through hairline cracks in the walls. He and the spirit were one --

The walls crumbled and light flooded in.

* * *

The healer was taking Anders’s pulse. He was on the side of the canopied bed nearest the fireplace, wrapped in covers, Hawke stretched out beside him. She tucked his arm back to his side. “He’s waking. I’ll be back soon, Champion.”

Hawke nodded.

Hawke heard the change in Anders’s breathing, and the ghosts of words on his lips. He stared into Anders’s face and waited.

Anders slid into consciousness slowly. A lot of places hurt. His back, between his legs. His knees were stiff and sore. His insides felt beaten and bruised, like he’d been kicked by a horse.

He was on his back in a warm bed, weighed down by blankets. Hawke was holding him, Anders knew him by the fit of his arms. Hawke. That’s who had been waiting for him. He smiled softly, utterly content for a moment. Hawke and --

What was real washed away what was not, his last memories replayed themselves, and his eyes flew wide open.

Hawke saw the panicked, deep inhale, and said his name. Anders looked at him.

Anders swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “Where is she?”

Hawke tightened his grip. That was all the answer Anders needed, even before Hawke’s expression said it all, and he twisted and tried to fight his way out of Hawke’s grasp. “Let me go to her. I can help --”

Hawke sat up, trying to keep him still. “Anders.” Hawke was holding him down far too easily. He hated feeling just how frail Anders was. “She never breathed. She -- please, don’t hurt yourself --”

Anders was shaking his head, trying to pull his hands away, refusing to hear. His vision was going fuzzy at the edges, even from this small exertion. “ _No._ Let me help her.”

“I’ll bring her to you.”

Anders was almost frantic. “Please.”

Hawke pressed him firmly into the mattress, telling him to stay put, and then he got up and went to the cradle. There was a blanked draped over its sides, and he folded it back. He lifted out a small form, bundled in white. He brought her to Anders, who had managed to shift onto his side. He set her down, and had to turn away as Anders took her into his arms.

Anders couldn’t breathe. She was so small, almost weightless. Her skin was blue and grey, pale. Not the tiniest spark of life, even as Anders’s weakened energies cast out toward her, desperately seeking for any hidden flame, some small ember that he could kindle. She couldn’t be gone. He only needed the merest, uncurling wisp. He would burn out his soul to bring her back.

Nothing.

She was as lifeless as marble. The feeble light around him snuffed out. He just stared, trying to comprehend.

Hawke’s gaze was still fixed on the high bedroom window, trying to control himself. Someone had him by the throat. “The healer did all she could,” he said. She had only turned away from Leandra when it became clear that if she didn’t, they would lose Anders as well.

Anders didn’t hear him. He was memorizing every feature, every curve and shadow. Delicate lashes and dark, still veins visible in the thin skin of her sealed eyelids. He wanted to see her eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her face and disturb the total peace there. “What color are her eyes?”

“Like yours.” Hawke had caught a glimpse as the healer worked, before the old elf had shut them. He turned around. Anders was ashen, not moving a muscle. Oh, love. Maker, he was so sorry. He was sick with himself for having to let this blow fall on Anders, that he couldn’t protect him from it.

Hawke’s hand touched his shoulder, trembling. Anders buried into the pillow and heard Hawke take the body away. He ignored the seeping sensation of blood between his legs. He couldn’t face Hawke, nor all of his failures. His chest was tight enough to choke the life out of him.

He felt Hawke crawl back onto the mattress and close to him. “Anders. This is not your fault.”

It was. This was his punishment, for the innocent life he had taken and for the monster he had become. He deserved it. He understood why he should suffer.

But what of Hawke? All of his excitement, the steadfast optimism. The joy on his face every morning, the wonder when he looked on them and saw not just Anders, but his _family_. The way he had held Anders up through the entire ordeal. Believed in him. Trusted him. All of that was ashes.

Hawke must hate him, must find him disgusting. Anders couldn’t blame him. Hawke was being kind now, but he was a good liar. Anders had seen it a thousand times. He would lend a comforting hand even when his heart was full of revulsion.

He had failed. He had been weak, and he had murdered their child. How could anyone forgive that?

Hawke was staring at Anders’s back. Anders was very still. Very distant. “Please, love,” Hawke said seekingly.

Anders shook his head on the pillow. “Go away.”

“Anders-”

 _You don’t have to stay._ “Leave me alone.”

Hawke’s warmth and weight disappeared. The door to the bedroom closed behind him, and Anders stared at the fire sputtering in the grate. As easy as that. Goodbye, Hawke.

* * *

Hawke pulled the bedroom door shut, and was suddenly unsteady on his feet. He sagged back against the door and closed his eyes. He felt as if all of his vitality had bled away. He wanted nothing more than to lay down beside Anders and admit defeat. But he still had a duty, as a partner and lover. He wouldn’t be weak when Anders needed him to be strong.

Hawke drew in a shaky breath. He had stayed beside Anders for hours, holding him, wishing him to live. This was his first step out of the room into the house beyond.

He looked blankly at the balustrade and the high stone walls. The mansion felt empty. More a mausoleum than a home. So many voices that should be here with them: His father and mother, Carver, Bethany. New cries that should be filling the hall. Instead, dead silence.

And Anders, acting as if he had died as well, or wished he had. If Hawke could trade places with either of them, to save their daughter’s life or save Anders from this pain, he would gladly have made that deal.

He put one hand to his forehead, then back through his dark hair. Anders. Anders needed him, but didn’t want him. Of course Anders hated him: after all, wasn’t this his fault? Hadn’t he done this to Anders? Hawke felt hot tears on his face.

The elf healer came from the kitchens. While Anders had slept, she had made some food for the two young men and left it warming, a usual part of her duties as midwife. In her hands was a tray with a bowl of soup, a kettle of hot water, a cup, and herbs that, once steeped, would make a tea to guard against too much after-bleeding.

She climbed the stairs to join Hawke on the landing, in the alcove outside the bedroom door. She looked him over, balancing the tray in her hands. She had seen her share of unhappy births. There were always tears and questions.

“Champion,” she said.

Hawke was embarrassed to be caught in such a fragile moment and he wiped his eyes, trying to pull himself together. He still couldn’t remember her name. Alena, Irena... “Healer. Thank you for... for all you tried to do. For saving him.”

She was so like his mother in that moment, gazing at him with quiet experience and utter kindness. “Don’t let this end you. There will be a tomorrow.”

“Is he all right? Will he be all right?” Physically.

“This day is very delicate. In a week we can breathe more easily. In a month or two we can let down our guard.”

“A month?” Hawke asked in quiet, renewed fear.

“He is a healer himself, Champion. He will know the signs. I noticed he has the remedies to hand. He’s made preparations. Don’t be afraid.”

Hawke pushed away from the door, then glanced at it, agony flaring as he thought on the scene beyond. “What happened?” Hawke asked miserably.

The healer was gentle. What he really wanted to know was _why_ , but she couldn’t know the Creators’ minds. It was an unusual case. Perhaps Mythal and Elgar’nan had not been in accord here. She kept this idea to herself, and stuck to facts. “The vessel that sustained the child came away too soon. Without his breath to provide for her, she slipped away.”

Hawke shook his head. “It’s not his fault.”

“No. There was nothing anyone could have done, before or after. All things are up to the Creators.”

She moved past him into the bedroom.

Hawke stood feeling very alone. Bodahn and Sandal were off in Orzammar, not due back for some weeks. Orana had been settled with one of the other families in Hightown, as fewer pairs of eyes on him had made Anders feel much safer lately. Dog had been let out by the healer, and was with Aveline’s recruits. Hawke didn’t want to be alone. He considered sending for Varric... but... what could he say? What could he say to any of them?

The healer emerged some minutes later. “Go to him.”

“Did he ask for me?”

She shook her head. “Don’t wait for him to ask.”

She went off in the direction of the kitchens again. Hawke went back into the bedroom.

Anders was propped up slightly, white as the sheets, and not interested in the steaming cup of tea on the small bedside table. The blighted woman had made him down a cup in her presence, and tried to insist on more. He didn’t feel like it.

He didn’t feel like anything.

Hawke came in, and Anders looked on him with distant pity. She had probably caught him and forced him back into the room, Anders thought. He met Hawke’s gaze without emotion.

“Do you need anything?” Hawke asked. It was such a meaningless thing to say. He wanted to gather Anders in his arms and ask for his forgiveness, beg him to get stronger and come back to him, but he was frozen in place by the empty coldness in Anders’s eyes.

“No,” Anders said.

Hawke’s heart was in his throat. He stared around for something tangible, something he could say or do that wouldn’t anger Anders, wouldn’t drive the wedge between them any further. His look landed on the untouched beaker of tea. “You should drink that. Two cups in the next hour, she said.”

“Why.”

“Because... so that you get better. I’m sorry, Anders.”

He didn’t need to be sorry. Anders knew he had damaged them beyond repair, beyond any hope of redemption. From now Hawke was a free man. Maybe he could walk if he tried. He would leave Hawke’s house and life today. If he couldn’t walk, he would crawl. They had one matter between them, and then they need never look on each other again.

“We’ll have to commend her,” Anders said. His voice sounded flat. “But with a burial... we would have to keep her in the cellars where it’s cold. Until the spring thaw.” Surely they couldn’t put her into the Amell tomb. What -- what would people _say_? He wouldn’t have her thought some bastard child and have people whisper about her illegitimate soul.

Hawke couldn’t bear the thought of the little form, so vulnerable, down in the cellars among the dust. His voice was thick with tears. “No.”

Anders looked up. Hawke was gazing at him with such... pain. Fearful, desperate pain. Like after his mother’s death, but so much worse. Anders slowly realized: he needs me. Anders couldn’t begin to fathom why.

His heart was still cocooned in shock, he scarcely felt anything at all, but he offered his arms. Hawke joined him, and they held each other as the fire finally went out.

* * *

Anders slept again, through the night. The healer (Ilena, she finally told Hawke with her knowing, gentle way) departed late in the evening, promising to return in the morning.

The next day, very early, Anders was still abed, and Hawke was helped him clean up. A basin of very warm water, a stack of cloths, fresh nightclothes. Later he and the healer would get the sheets changed again. Hawke soaked a new cloth and wrung it out.

Anders couldn’t look at him and hid behind his lids. Being touched like this, so lovingly... he didn’t deserve it. It had hit him during the night, the numb shock had melted as he slept.

After-pains again. He shifted in discomfort, and Hawke understood. The healer had said... He got another washcloth, folded it, dipped it into the hot water, and cushioned it below Anders’s navel. Anders tried to smile.

Instead, he started to cry.

Hawke put aside the towels, leaned forward very carefully, and embraced him. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. Nothing would ever be right again, and when Hawke saw that, the blame and anger would start.

Hawke was afraid of holding Anders too tightly, but more afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. He heard Anders speak, very softly:

“Please. I don’t want...” _to live. To deal with this pain, continue this battle. Please, Maker, let me die._ It would be merciful. Easy. The best way out. He didn’t want to fight or feel. His body was so light and empty. He missed her terribly, that little person he had never met. She had been with him, near him, and now she was gone. “I’m sorry.”

Hawke kissed his temple, brushing at the tears leaking from his eyes. “I love you.”

“You _can’t_.” His voice broke and he choked on the words. He hated himself so much. No one could love him.

“I’m here.” But Anders was shattering in his arms; there was nothing Hawke could do.

That was the final scene. Tears, oblivion. Anders went into despair, and only part of him returned.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Angst.  
> Thank you for reading! <3

They chose, after all, to put her in the Amell family tomb. She would rest beside her grandmother. To the Void with how it _looked_. Let people say what they would.

It was done quickly and discreetly, thanks to Hawke’s coin and Varric’s string-pulling. There was no funeral, but a priestess from the chantry came to say the rites. It wasn’t her place, but it was human nature, to judge: her money was on a crop of wild oats. She couldn’t guess if it was the holier-than-thou Champion or his apostate “friend”, but she imagined there was some unfortunate woman who couldn’t show her face in Hightown. (Anders knew what was in her mind, and stared at the ground. Hawke had insisted on the rites, on letting this woman come, see them, and condemn: so be it. He had hurt Hawke enough, he wouldn’t oppose him.)

Whatever the priestess thought, the sins of the father had nothing to do with the child, and Leandra was sent blameless to the Maker.

Varric stood with them. The only other witnesses were a pair of stone smiths, who fit the tomb back up after Hawke, carefully controlled, set the body inside. Anders huddled on a bench nearby, still weak, using all of his energy not to cry. The stoneworkers left as soon as their work was through, and Varric made his exit. Hawke was helping Anders up when Fenris arrived, silently, and stared at them.

Fenris wasn’t dim. He had kept a very close eye on the house. Knowing Anders’s condition, he had been able to surmise what had happened. Every suspicion was confirmed, as he watched the two men standing together in their own private hell. Hawke looked just as ragged as the mage. A father who had lost a child. Something should be said, that was the custom. He had read some of the Chantry’s tracts, the sayings of saints, and finally he had asked Varric. Now he tried out the words: “I am sorry for your loss.”

Anders turned his head away, but Hawke nodded to him. “Thank you.”

The words were not much of a comfort, but he hadn’t expected they would be. Theirs was pain he couldn’t understand, much less assuage. A flash of intuition told Fenris that the kindest thing he could do was leave them in peace. He went.

Varric negotiated Orana back from her other employers, to keep the two alive until Sandal and Bodahn returned. He arranged the trip back to Ferelden for Ilena, the healer who was still attending Anders. That had been the deal: she would assist, and then she was to be given passage wherever she wanted. She wanted to see her grandchildren. Easy enough to arrange, on paper: who was to say he didn’t have an elven cousin traveling on Tethras Family Business™?

Varric had food delivered to the estate’s kitchens, kept an eye on Hawke’s assets in the trading market, met with Hawke’s business contacts so they didn’t get offended and take their coin elsewhere. He did this all in his quiet, behind-the-scenes way, and it didn’t matter that Hawke was too caught up in grief to notice. Varric wasn’t looking to be thanked. He helped Hawke move the cradle and other things back into storage with his own two hands. When he visited Blondie, he chased Hawke out - because their entire world had collapsed into a sickroom, and he hated to see them caged up. At the Hanging Man, he filed away the small trust account he had prepared for his godchild. The money would sit, for now. He wasn’t sentimental, but he couldn’t quite erase her name from his records.

* * *

Hawke gradually stepped back into his more ceremonial, public duties. There were dinner parties marking the year’s end, celebrating a new year’s beginning, and Sandal and Bodahn returned. Sandal’s friendly gibbering kept the silence from growing too heavy. The house was almost as it was before. One night, as they sat not knowing what to say to each other, Anders mentioned as much to Hawke.

“We won’t forget her.” Hawke hesitated. “The healer said some day, if we wanted to try again...”

That was the assurance every healer gave every grieving parent the world over. Hawke couldn’t actually _believe_... Anders looked away. “I don’t want to talk about that. Never again.”

Never again. Hawke was relieved. He was still hurting, but he was happy as long as he still had Anders beside him. Almost losing him had been the stuff of nightmares, and he lay awake some nights just watching Anders breathe, touching his warm skin to assure himself that Anders was still alive. He couldn’t put aside the memory of holding him for those first few hours, feeling his weak, rapid heartbeat, and how he had smelled of blood, sweat, and fear. Or the following days, when their lives were indescribable. Agony. Never again was too soon, as far as Hawke was concerned. He was glad that Anders was of the same mind.

* * *

Anders still spent a lot of time in bed. He was much stronger, now, but the weight of his thoughts kept him slumped in place, staring at the bed’s carved, wooden-box canopy. It was one of the feasting days and Hawke was out, putting in an appearance at another stuffed-shirt do. Bodahn and Sandal were celebrating somewhere. Orana had found a nice boy in the alienage, and they, too, were spending their spare moments together.

It could have been very lonely, lying in an empty, quiet house, knowing that everywhere around him people were exchanging glances, drinking, dancing, and feeling warm and connected. But Anders was glad to be alone. He and Justice had business.

He felt down to his belt, and pulled the small knife out of the sheath. He didn’t look at it, but he knew the blade was sharp and well-kept.

He turned his thoughts inward.

 _Did you do this._ Justice had murdered that mage girl. A few days ago, Anders had suddenly tripped and went sprawling over another terrible realization: Justice might have more blood on his hands. Their daughter’s. He had tried so hard to control him, what if he had failed in that, too? What if Justice had his own ideas - he had never approved of this, any of it. What if.

Anders gripped the knife hard. If he was right, he would carve himself and Justice apart. He would excise this twisted, wretched spirit, even if it meant his own death. Revenge for her, and for Hawke’s pain, and for himself, and to finally end the hated _helplessness_ that still turned his heart into jagged, piercing glass in his chest.

He and Justice were one, but there was some interplay. His thoughts stumbled occasionally, like hitting an untuned string on a lute. That was Justice’s ‘voice’. And again Anders asked, _did you do this_.

 _No._ Justice felt none of his guilt or shame. Took none of the responsibility. But he wasn’t sorry about what had happened. Now their work could go forward. _Must_ go forward. There was nothing to hold them back. No salvation, no mercy.

Anders felt tears well and prickle in the chilly air. It was his fault and failure, completely. He had been right, that first day after -- right to hate himself, right to blame himself, right to want to die.

 _Not yet._ He was alive for one reason: to tip the scales of justice.

Anders’s eyes glowed briefly. The work must go forward. He agreed. Let them set the world on fire, blow its foundation to pieces. Let the spark be self-immolation. He no longer cared. Things couldn’t go on as they had.

He and Justice were in accord. He sheathed his knife.

* * *

He was still flat on his back on the mattress when Hawke returned.

Hawke hated noblemen’s parties, but if he didn’t appear, they talked. (What might be keeping him away? That filthy apostate living in his house. Probably up to something. Maybe alert the guard, or the templars, to make sure there weren’t abominations in the basement, about to wreak havoc in Hightown’s respectable streets. So Hawke arrived, mingled long enough to show he hadn’t been made into a necrophagic horror, and escaped again.)

He got home, saw the library door closed and the light of the library’s fire burning beneath it, and decided Anders must finally be getting back to work. He smiled sadly, climbed the stairs, and entered the candle-lit bedroom, yanking at the gold threads of his clothes. He didn’t like the too-fine cloak with the Amell crest on it. Too soft and light, useless in winter, but it was the style. He put it back on its hook in his wardrobe, and pulled off his velvety boots. He turned around and noticed Anders on the bed.

His eyes were open, and Hawke froze in fear. But Anders’s chest was rising and falling. Hawke left off undressing and approached the bed.

“Anders?” Maybe - he leaned over. Anders ignored him. It was some sort of waking slumber, his eyes staring into nothing. Maybe he was in the Fade. Hawke had never seen a mage journeying there while awake. The fire hadn’t been lit and the room was chilly. Hawke was afraid to touch him, but... what harm could a blanket do?

He got one from the small cupboard and moved to spread it as carefully as he could over Anders, whose eyes suddenly snapped to him.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said automatically. “I didn’t realize --”

Anders hadn’t been in the Fade at all. Just staring at the bed’s cover, feeling sick at heart. His look told Hawke as much, scared him, and Hawke put aside the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

“Talk with me, Anders.”

Anders was exhausted by the thought. He shook his head. It had been a month and a half, and Hawke was always hovering, waiting for an opportunity to _talk about it_. He had never met a man more convinced that a chat could set things right.

“Please.”

“It does no good, Garrett. It’s just more pain that...” He hated trying to talk about it. Hearing Hawke comfort him, deflect blame -- or worse, take blame on himself.

“Tell me how I can help,” Hawke said, tracing his arm.

Help? There was no help coming from any quarter. He and Justice had agreed. It was down to him. Hawke was beside him, looking worried, but Anders couldn’t confide in him -- wouldn’t see Hawke implicated, wouldn’t see him hurt. No, in this, he was truly alone. ‘Go to your own doom.’ He was starting to appreciate Fenris’s warning.

He reached up, grasped Hawke’s shirt, and pulled him down. Hawke returned the nipping, pressing kiss, felt Anders exploring in his shirt, then dipping into his waistband. His brain told him that there was too much left unsaid, that this was a distraction -- but other parts of him didn’t care, because it had been weeks and they were full of gnawing hunger for this. When Anders found him, squeezed, and set his nerves on fire, those parts of Hawke won and his brain fell silent.

Anders wrestled Hawke down, twisting with him to get their shirts off. He put his two hands on Hawke’s chest, pushed him flat, and followed the center of his body. He rubbed his cheek at Hawke’s groin, the smooth, silken cloth covering the warm hardness beneath. He mouthed along the cool material, and then the freed shaft, as he opened Hawke’s buttons. Kisses up the trail of hair to Hawke’s navel, as he yanked the pants down off his hips, then helped as Hawke kicked them off.

Hawke sat up to help Anders with the rest of his clothes, but Anders kissed him back down, still grasping and stroking Hawke’s length with one hand.

Anders bit Hawke’s lower lip gently and murmured, “Just feel.”

Hawke relaxed under him, and as his fingertips brushed over Hawke’s chest, the taut nub of a nipple, he gave the slightest, buzzing spark. More warm than sharp. Hawke jerked in his hand.

Anders’s mouth joined in, the tip of his tongue hooking under the well-exposed head. He heard Hawke whine as he wet the underside with his tongue and gave a slight puff of frost. These were the sorts of lessons the apprentices gave each other, in dark corners and linen cupboards. He let the cold sink in for just a second, and used his mouth to banish it.

Chill, heat -- Hawke was shivering all over, as Anders used his other hand to cup and roll him. His new scruff brushed over Hawke’s skin as he nuzzled around, pumping Hawke slowly as he explored the creases of his strong thighs and the dark curls. His kisses and gentle bites left points of heated red on the pale, vulnerable flesh of Hawke’s inner thighs. Anders liked the way Hawke’s breathing got louder, the dark flush of the head as Anders circled his thumb over it, the thickness and weight of him when he took Hawke in his mouth. He liked, too, the power it gave him, squeezing a little too tightly on the drawn sack so that the twitching turned into discomfort. And yet Hawke stayed open for him, trusting him.

Anders palmed his balls and pinched again, deliberate, just to hear that hiss.

“Anders --”

Anders licked him one last time, and pulled away. “I want you.”

The cool air of the room on him was painful after the heat of Anders’s mouth, and he gladly turned over, settling his ache against the warm blankets. Anders slid off the bed, grabbed the bottle from the wardrobe, and returned as Hawke situated a pillow beneath his hips. He slicked up his fingers with the rose-smelling oil.

He wasn’t gentle. He wanted Hawke to feel him, remember how it used to be. Just them, like this. He curled his fingers, ran them along the contour just inside, using his nails, and Hawke writhed.

He took his fingers away. Hawke’s back rippled in anticipation as Anders ran his palms along the back of his legs, up his thighs, guiding him apart as Anders settled over him. He used another swipe of oil, and started to push in.

Hawke hadn’t done this in awhile. He tried to relax around the stiff burn of intrusion, Anders’s hardness shoving roughly inside, but Anders moved steadily, letting Hawke gasp and hiss. He gave Hawke no time to adjust, just a strong push of hardness, stretching him wide. Hawke grabbed the sheets.

“Anders--”

 _There_. Anders stretched himself along Hawke’s spine, fitting himself to Hawke, and reached out to entwine their fingers together. Hawke was breathing in small grunts, and Anders thrust his hips. Maker, he was tight. Anders had missed this.

Anders rocked and Hawke growled. Anders was heavy on top of him, pumping with strong, quick thrusts, and Hawke tried to relax into the uncomfortable stretching too far, too soon. Anders’s breath was hot against his neck. “Wait.”

Anders fell still, but he was in his own world, trying to find what they had been, maybe, or forget what they had lost. He wrapped his arms around Hawke and buried his face into his broad shoulder. “I love you.”

He wanted Hawke to know it, and he reared up, rolled his hips, and that place inside Hawke sparked and crackled. Hawke bucked to meet him, suddenly aching again, as his discomfort turned to lightning flashing and heavy, liquid fire pooling in the pit of his stomach. Anders snaked an arm around him, grabbed and stroked him again.

Still rough. Anders was not always a gentle man - but Hawke was in the moment now, up on his hands. He was moving with Anders, in their rhythm. Drowning friction as Anders’s fingers ran and squeezed over his cock, and Anders inside him, full and desperate. Togetherness, tightness, and heat, as Anders thrust and Hawke took him. He heard Anders groan, and the push of him, the pull of his hand, touched off the rolling waves through his legs and Anders’s squeezing, guiding palm. Anders shuddered on top of him, every muscle went tight and drew a sudden, full, desperate release that had been pent up and waiting.

They were in a heap together. Anders’s arm was still around him, pinned between Hawke and the mattress, and he hugged Hawke to him. He wanted to remember this, for as long as he was able. Wanted Hawke to remember _him_ , well after the short time they had left.

* * *

When Anders was well again, he returned nominally to the clinic, and to picking up the pieces of his other, more clandestine duties. Meredith’s forces had started their reign of terror and decimated the mage underground. His long recovery had kept him out of the worst. They had failed to catch him up in their net, but he watched in helpless anger over the next months as the networks they had built collapsed. Section by section, infiltrators, turncoats, and brute templar force scattered them and broke it all down. There was no Kirkwall underground to speak of anymore, just a few holdouts whispering to each other in the dark. Day after day, people he knew and trusted taken away, made unhuman. The rage took him.

Why did they spare him? They didn’t, not really. He was watched everywhere he went, much more closely than before. Without like-minded others he was isolated, impotent, and worse - an active reminder to his fellow mages that he enjoyed privileges they never would. That anger turned some of the moderates to radicals: whether back to Loyalists or more dangerous extremism, which was stamped out without mercy. The templars let him be, because every moment he was free, he was tearing mage unity to pieces.

He turned away from them. His brothers and sisters, still under the yoke. Pettiness, jealousies - his heart spurned them and their weakness, even as he grew more fervent in his belief that the stalemate had to end. The standstill must be broken. Their insecurities would give way to anger in an open fight, and they would win.

During all of this, his body established itself as forever changed. Every month, a nauseating reminder. He felt sick and unclean, and hid away from Hawke. He didn’t want to be touched. He looked for answers, but this was some filthy, dark magic, rarely written down. There was no information for him anywhere, not this far from the Imperium’s libraries. (“What’s wrong?” “You have a sister, don’t you? Maker, you cannot be _so_ ignorant.” And he and Hawke didn’t speak of it again.) He learned to live with it slowly. In six months’ time, he stopped hiding in his clinic for the week.

He didn’t write any more. He burned armfuls of copies of his manifesto. He told Hawke curtly that things had gone beyond words.

Anders felt _real_ when Hawke was making love to him, making him writhe and sweat and moan. He tried to cling to and remember that. Hawke’s mouth so strong against his, a hand around his cock, or when Hawke spread him and took him. If those feelings could stay, burning bright. But Justice rose like a cold mist, and everything frosted over, and became strange.

Sometimes he saw his goal, Justice’s goal, like a banner whipping in the wind on a far-off peak. And he put all of himself into the climb, disappeared for days into a manic energy and babbled. He knew he babbled, because Hawke’s face grew worried.

Then he crashed. Right back down to earth, under the hateful scrutiny of the templars, under the Chantry’s rule. It was overwhelming, as if his goal was ten tons hanging over his head.

How Hawke put up with him - why - he couldn't bring himself to ask. Half the time, when he was striving toward the peak, he didn’t care. He forgot Hawke, their pain, everything. It was like being intoxicated with himself. Yet when the euphoria fell away and he was broken, unable to take another step, Hawke patiently scooped him up. Held him. Took him to their bed and let Anders hide in his arms. Hawke was the safety net, so he didn’t smash to pieces from the whiplash highs and lows.

Hawke was on the sidelines of this terrible struggle, and understood that he was the anchor. That was why he kept his shoulders squared, his words gentle. Outside of them, there were things to do, people to help, public functions to see to. Their inner lives had all but fallen apart, but he put one foot in front of the other.

They still went to bed together, but Anders always held something back. It wasn’t just that they had to be cautious when they coupled in certain ways. It wasn’t even that some days, Anders took bath after bath and every line of his face showed his disgust. (Hawke’s assurances did no good, there.)

Some piece of Anders had gone with their child. He was wholly committed now to the mages’ cause, consumed, as if the last shred of his own self had finally been torn away. When Hawke could coax him to talk about it at all, his conversation was extreme. It was as if he could see and feel nothing else. That was how he had escaped the past year.

Hawke, without a similar all-consuming cause to rally behind, found a new distance between himself and his lover that was a constant, quiet source of agony. They should have moved on together. Instead, to Hawke, it felt like Anders had left him struggling in the water about to go under, and pulled himself onto a very dangerous shore.

Any time Hawke attempted to breach the new walls Anders had put up, bridge the distance, he was met with evasion and unwillingness. Because Hawke loved him, and feared losing him completely, he let it go on. Even when he was angry, even when he knew he was being blackmailed and that the path they were walking was growing more dire by the moment, his heart was Anders’s total hostage.

And then Anders blew up the chantry.


	14. Chapter 14

They stood together and battled the templars, Orsino, Meredith. They won, the city somehow endured, and war came down.

They escaped the courtyard and followed the exodus of frightened people toward the Gallows docks. Varric, Aveline, and Merrill were with them. Bethany had gone with her fellow Wardens, at Hawke’s insistence. It was safer that way.

Anders looked over his shoulder back at the Gallows, and as he turned his head he caught Hawke’s eye.

“Now what? What was your plan?” Hawke asked viciously.

He was keeping pace with Hawke out of nothing but habit. The rush of power in his veins, the hard, stone steps under his boots, pushing through the crowd around him, the smell of the far-off fires and dank seawater lapping at the slime-covered piers... he was alive, contrary to every expectation. What was his plan? “I didn’t think I’d need one.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed.

Anders felt himself closing up. Hawke was more angry than Anders had ever seen him. A cold, dark storm was blazing in him, and he was striding with a dangerous coil in his muscles.

They were at the docks, in the crush of people fleeing. Time to split up. “Stay behind me,” Hawke ordered Anders. Anyone after Anders would deal with him first. Varric easily took the lead among the others, and he and Hawke agreed to slip out of Kirkwall and meet at the appointed place, near the supply cache outside the walls.

Hawke and Anders crossed back to the city in the chaos, and escaped through streets choked with debris, fire, and panic, toward the Amell estate. It wasn’t so far from the chantry, and like most of the proud homes of Hightown, it had been struck full-on by the shockwave of destruction. Anders followed Hawke mutely, taking in the aftermath. Worse than he thought it would be. Fires had broken out. People were organizing, trying to save their houses from the flames. Neighbors, servants, digging for other neighbors. Parents crying for their children, children crying for their parents. This was just the beginning. Justice was gloating.

It was near-suicide to come back here, but Hawke had to see about Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana, tell them to get out before the templars came looking for anyone and everyone who knew the Champion and the apostate.

As they reached the square where the house stood, they were greeted by the deep, happy barks of a mabari, and Dog came bounding. The facade of the Amell estate had collapsed, along with others around the square, and they clambered in.

They were alive. Bodahn and Sandal had been down in the cellars, where Sandal sometimes liked to play. Orana had been in the kitchens, set far back from the front of the house. They were manning their stations, waiting for orders -- an amazing display of fealty, from people who had never promised him anything, never asked for his trust... and Hawke looked darkly at Anders.

Anders didn’t miss his glare. He wandered away while Hawke was telling Orana to go to her people, the friends she had made. Hawke pressed a pouch of coins into her hands. Bodahn had bundled Sandal out the ruined door already. Orana finally understood, and fled. Hawke turned around, expecting to see Anders - he was gone.

Hawke snarled and went looking.

He found Anders upstairs. Their bedroom was open to the smoke-filled sky. The alcove and bedroom door stood firm, but part of the ceiling had fallen in, and had crushed and splintered the bed where they used to sleep. Anders was staring at it. The dark covers were scattered and pooled like a bloodstain, like something alive had been crushed to death. Hawke entered the room and stood silently beside his partner.

He had never hit Anders before. He had called him a murderer in front of their friends. He had promised to stay with him, be fugitives together, as their friends and frightened mages looked on. But now that they were alone, all of the fear and anger became something brutal. The temporary peace in the Gallows was forgotten, now that the end of their lives didn’t seem so immediate and hurt had room to take hold.

“Satisfied?” Hawke demanded.

Anders turned to face him. “Yes,” he said.

Something inside Hawke was a taut string, about to snap right in Anders’s face. Anders could feel it. He had a sudden impulse to get the last word, show Hawke he was right. He - or Justice, high on his victory - decided to pluck it. “You wouldn’t have chosen this fight? If she had lived - you would have let that world have its way with her?”

Hawke looked at him slowly. Using their daughter to justify... this.

 _Snap._ Hawke struck him, close-fisted, and Anders’s thoughts broke to pieces and went spinning out of his head. He staggered, felt Hawke’s hand bunch in the front of his robe, and Hawke pummeled him again. Teeth cracked, copper flooded his mouth.

Anders fought back with magic. That was his only hope against a man used to swinging a greatsword around all day. This was the bloody battle across the land in microcosm: Anders afraid and defiant, Hawke betrayed and furious. Anders drove Hawke back with flames that sprang to life in his hands. He smelled burning hair. He tasted blood. There were points of white flashing in his vision. The spell sputtered - he was exhausted, couldn’t find his focus.

Hawke rushed him. Anders wasn’t quick enough. Hawke barreled through the weak flash of lightning and got Anders by the throat. His momentum tumbled them back, toward the bedroom door, and Hawke swept forward and smashed Anders against the still-standing portion of wall like a ragdoll. Anders saw black stars exploding as Hawke gathered and pinned his two wrists in one large, strong hand.

Justice intervened. The blue light in Anders’s eyes almost blinded Hawke, and he had to twist away. He heard Justice’s voice say, “Stop.”

Hawke didn’t release him. He stood his ground, fingertip and thumb digging in below Anders’s jaw, an iron vice around his trachea. “Justice. I _know_ the chantry was your idea.” It couldn’t be Anders who had betrayed him that way.

Anders, now just an observer in his own, scattered mind, wanted desperately to cry. Justice with his anger was stronger than he was: he would hurt Hawke, kill him. Anders under his own power never could. He would rather die.

“You understand nothing. I was right to warn him away from you.”

“You have no ‘right’ to anything here, demon.” Hawke tightened his grip, feeling Anders swallow and gasp against his squeezing palm.

Anders’s body was struggling for breath, getting twitchy and desperate; Justice was unconcerned. “I am part of him.”

That was what Hawke hated most. This enemy right in their midst. An enemy he couldn’t fight, hiding behind the eyes he loved. “You could shut your whore-sucking mouth and let him _live_. Not drive him to this.”

“You have always been an obstacle to our cause,” Justice... Vengeance... rumbled. “I’ve spared you because when you die, he will not be far behind. There is too much yet to do. But know this: I will always be here, and you would do well to make peace with it.”

And Justice flared out. Anders came back, choking, and Hawke let go. The fight was all gone from Anders. He slid down until he was seated on the floor. He coughed, and again.

Hawke was glaring, furiously, into the near-distance above Anders's head. “You heard all of that, I assume.”

Anders nodded. He stared at his hands.

“What am I supposed to do?” Hawke asked. “A part of you hates me, and always will. What sort of life is that? How much of this can I be expected to take?”

“Not nearly as much as you have.” Anders struggled to his feet. He was still trapped between Hawke and the stone wall. Hawke had burns lashed across his face, angry, red sears, and Anders had blood smeared on his chin. “I’ll go. Alone. I knew you couldn’t mean it.”

“Where will you go?” Hawke asked coldly, still looming in front of him like the shadow of the tower.

“Where I’m needed. To fight.”

“Do you think you’ll sweep to the front lines and play savior? Do you know what’s waiting out there? You’ve doomed _thousands_. More.”

Vigil’s Keep hadn’t been war, but it hadn’t been a picnic. And he had been dragged down into the Deep Roads often enough. How naive did Hawke think him? “I’ve seen battle.”

“But have you seen _slaughter_?” Ostagar. “Do you know what it’s like, fighting for your life? Wiping the blood out of your eyes to look for reinforcements that aren’t coming?”

“We’ll win. We’re stronger than they are.” They had the Maker’s divine gifts. Dominion over earth, air, fire. They could turn the ground the templars stood on against them, poison the very air they breathed. He wiped shakily at the blood on his chin.

Hawke’s hands slammed into the wall either side of Anders, caging him, making him jump as the metal of Hawke’s gauntlets rang against the stone. “Mages are divided. Some won’t fight. Right or wrong, they won’t, and you know it. You’re in your towers - fine. Convenient strongholds. But are they provisioned for sieges? A sturdy blockade, and the templars won’t have to lift a sword. Starvation will do it. So you can’t stay there - you’ll have to engage them on open ground. It won’t be so easy then. What about the very old? Or those too young to fight?”

“We’ll win,” Anders said again.

“Everyone’s going to lose.” That’s what war between men was. A contest to see who lost the least.

“It had to be done. We’ll find a way.” There was a crack of uncertainty, and Anders looked left and right at the strong arms hemming him in.

“You’ve been alone with the voices in your head too long.” Hawke’s face, very close to Anders’s, hardened as his mind set in decision. He wouldn’t be used, but he couldn’t be idle. “I’ll come with you. I can’t sit by while innocent people die. Maybe there’s a way to _fix_ this mess.”

Anders was silent. Hawke had no faith in him. Didn’t believe in what he had done. Hated him for it. He could read it in the remoteness of Hawke’s soul.

Let him hate. Let them all - Anders could hear the shouting outside, the panic, see the glow and flicker of the fire slowly consuming the city, and black smoke flowing across the sky. He was standing in the wreck of the very heart of their lives. To his humiliation, he suddenly couldn’t see for tears. He had been sure he would die. He hadn’t expected to be confronted with all this. Only Hawke could make him doubt... but it was too late.

He should have gone into the chantry himself. He could have seen the look on the Grand Cleric’s face. “I told you I would pay with my life. Come on, don’t sit by.” Kill me.

“Now you want me to do it? I’m to jump to another of your whims?” Hawke shook his head. He had played that game, the patient lover, and look where they were.

Anders was in a vice. His convictions couldn’t stand much more. “Finish it, or --”

“I don’t want another of your ultimatums, Anders. They aren’t fair.”

“Just do _something_.”

Hawke folded him in his arms. Anders went wide-eyed, froze, and then in resignation he put his cheek against the battle-scarred shoulder plate, still warm from his assault, and waited for the knife.

It didn’t come. Just Hawke’s embrace.

Anders put his arms around Hawke. He wished this armor was gone. He rested his forehead against Hawke’s, and Hawke saw his tears. His face softened, opened, and Anders felt him come back. His warmth, his soul. Reaching out for Anders.

This was what Justice, and Vengeance, didn’t know. Couldn’t feel. Mercy. _Love_. This was the capacity to confront evil without _more_ evil, something Anders himself had forgotten. He had forgotten, and so he had lost hope, and so he had followed the baying call for blood. Dozens of innocent lives lost. Many more would follow. Maker, what had he done?

Hawke gently took his shoulders and pushed him back. He reached up. Anders flinched, but Hawke’s rough, gloved hand landed lightly on his face. His thumb caught some of the blood on Anders’s lips and brushed it away. “When I die, you ‘won’t be far behind’?”

Anders stared past him. If Hawke died, he might still move, but only to take up a knife. He had completed his mission. There was fighting to be done, but he wasn’t needed anymore. Not really. No matter what Justice told him, or made him feel... If Hawke wasn’t in this world, he had no reason to stay. Didn’t deserve to.

Hawke’s hand was strong against his jawline, his fingertips resting on the fluttering artery in Anders’s neck. They had been through too much. There might be anger and lingering fear, but feeling the rush of blood under Anders’s skin, looking at his too-expressive brown eyes, knowing that he had been driven to this, and that he never wanted to hurt anyone, just to live and be free...

“Let’s go,” Hawke said. The world was about to tear itself apart. They had to do what they could. “Together.”

Anders hesitated. “Justice... He’s still here. He can hear every word you’re saying. He knows every thought in my head.”

“I don’t care about him.”

“He’s... he’s me. If you can’t understand that--”

“Then I love him. Let him get your mind around _that_.” Hawke smiled briefly, and put his lips to Anders’s mouth.

And they ran.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another time skip. The chantry incident is year seven, and Varric tells the story in year ten (9:40). This technically could function as the "end", but there's an epilogue to come. :)

Year Nine (9:39), Eighth Month (August)

Another separation. Anders understood this, repeated to himself what he had long told Hawke: this was more important than the two of them. There were too many things to be done, and Hawke was in high demand. They had spent the last year and a half meeting and parting again. He had last seen Hawke, touched him, almost three months ago. Anders himself had only just returned from the Orlais border, a secret summit, as the First Enchanter of their Circle had been interested in talking. So much talking. Justice had been impatient with words before, but now the volume had redoubled.

This camp was the nerve center for the remnants of the Kirkwall and Orlais Circles, constantly in flux as allies arrived and departed running messages, hunting down templar forces, or recruiting those who proclaimed loyalty to the mages’ cause.

Hawke had gone south to the coast. More allies to meet. But the solstice was soon, and that was the expected rendezvous in this Maker-forsaken corner of the Free Marches. Anders, Varric, Merrill, and the main contingent of their company were already waiting, hidden down a long, forested valley.

They saw fire at dusk, up on the ridge at the far end of the valley. It could be Hawke. It could also be templars. Anders didn’t sleep a moment, waiting for the sun to rise. The day broke with rainclouds and mist, and brought a heavy, chill fog from the mountains that seeped down into the lowland, pooling around trees and their tents. They didn’t light the fires, in case those on the ridge were enemies. Anders was shivering in his cloak - whether it was anticipation or the weather, he wasn’t sure - when the look-outs spotted the Champion’s band and ushered them to the camp.

They didn’t have time to speak when he arrived. Hawke squeezed Anders’s hand, and was swept into the make-shift command tent, where the business of organizing a war effort was in full swing. Hawke was shuttled to the front to report. Anders followed the curious onlookers into the tent, and stood near the back.

Hawke had the floor, and everyone’s attention. “We met the envoy from Ferelden. They were traveling under the Hero’s name, though she wasn’t with them.”

The crowd in the large tent nodded and murmured. Ferelden was still poised, neither enemy nor friend. There were all manner of rumors, some of which Hawke addressed now. Was it true the Circle there had been pardoned? Was King Alistair their strangest, but most powerful ally? Was the Hero of Ferelden willing to enter on their side?

The meeting took nearly an hour, Hawke answering question after question to the clustered circle of mages, allies, and deserted templars. Ser Cullen was among them - was, in fact, leading most of the templar forces who found their way to the Champion’s banner. Anders stared at Cullen, sitting at the front with his armor well-shined and a hint of awe on his face as he listened to the Champion speak. Hero worship, or something else that made Anders uncomfortable beyond the fact that the man was an ex-templar.

That some of the templars had joined them... that both vindicated Anders and humbled him. He had hated every templar to the last woman and man, and some had come to fight beside them. They recognized their own evils - and sought to conquer and banish them. That was a contradiction that Anders’s hate couldn’t withstand, and without the hate making everything so clear, there was room for regret. Some. He hadn’t been right, even if he hadn’t been wholly wrong. But the only way was forward. He lived with himself by adopting Hawke’s long view. History would judge these matters.

Hawke had some more intel. “We got word that Antiva has done it. They’re holding their own.”

There were nods all around, again, and Anders, ignored in the corner, took the news with satisfaction. They were almost two years into... whatever this was. The revolution. Hawke, at least, called it civil war, because he saw it as brother against sister.

Whatever it was, they had made encouraging strides. One by one, the Circles rebelled against the templars and the Chantry. There were standing armies aligned against them, and rogue templars in small bands, or even alone, but so far they had experienced more victories than defeats, narrow though they might have been.

Hawke was watching Anders, and saw him slip out of the tent as the questioning continued.

He returned not long after, and waited impatiently for Hawke to finish his report. Finally, the impromptu meeting broke up, and Hawke joined him outside. Hawke wound an arm around him and leaned in.

“I’m all debriefed,” Hawke said. He grinned, feeling the warmth of Anders’s body against his in the cool air.

Anders rolled his eyes and tugged Hawke’s arm. “Come with me.”

Hawke peaked his eyebrows and followed Anders through the camp. Homecomings were always a little strange. There was clumsiness in the first moment or two, as modes of life clicked back together after each had been on their own course. Anders was leading him away... Hawke felt a rush of eagerness as they passed the now-blazing cooking fires and found the mud-splattered tent that was theirs to share.

That sort of reunion didn’t seem to be on the agenda as they entered the canvas confines. Anders drew him close, but gave him a kiss that was still distant.

Hawke had some of the old fear when he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Anders said.

“I’m back.” Hawke set down his bag and looked around. The tent’s interior was a welcoming disaster, full of scattered clothes, blankets, books. Anders never picked up his things. Hawke didn’t know if he was just absent-minded, like clever people often were, or if it was some sort of _statement_. (Dirty socks might be the most effective civil disobedience you could muster, when you were thirteen and locked up in a tower.) Without Bodahn around to kindly straighten up after him, Hawke had plenty of opportunity to wonder, and trip over things. He ignored the mess for the moment and started digging in his bag for a change of his own clothes. “What’s been going on?”

“Same old. Varric’s composing another epic. It’s about you, since you’ve become the face of mage emancipation.” Anders watched him undress.

“Have I?” Hawke asked. He knew very well that it was his name, somehow, that had filtered out of Kirkwall and preceded shouts for freedom across Thedas. “What about you? Seems to me it was _you_ who --”

It wasn’t a good joke. The chantry was still a bruise on their relationship, tender to the touch. They looked at one another uncomfortably.

Anders tried to move them on with a smile. “It’s only right. You’re the more handsome, anyway.”

Hawke snorted. He pulled off the rest of his sodden traveling clothes. His head disappeared into the hem of a clean, thick shirt, then reappeared from the collar. “I hope the weather lets up.”

Anders nodded distractedly. He had no interest in the weather.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve started a war. You’ve had to leave your home, your mother’s resting place. Our daughter’s...”

Hawke could finally think of her without his heart seizing, but he slowed, doing up the buttons of his trousers thoughtfully as he chose his words. “I’m with you. That’s what matters.” Yes, he wanted to safeguard Anders’s feelings, but it was also the truth. There were a thousand ways to find happiness. He found his with Anders, every day they were together.

This was an odd welcome, though. Maybe Anders was just feeling melancholy, but Hawke sensed something was hanging unsaid. Hawke pulled on his boots, straightened up, and looked at Anders meaningfully.

Hawke had that look. _Talk to me._

Anders let any pretence of playfulness die. “After we parted, I didn’t bleed.” Please don’t be slow about this.

Hawke understood. “You think--”

“I know,” Anders interrupted.

Hawke deferred to him with a brief tilt of his head. “I thought we were being careful.”

“With always being on the move, I must have lost track. Miscounted. I don’t know.” Anders had given himself headaches trying to retrace every step, every rhythm of his body, the last few months. Things had been chaotic. Somewhere along the way his attention had lapsed.

Hawke saw the embarrassment on Anders’s face. This would always be a tense dimension of his life, one that he hadn’t asked for or wanted. All Hawke could do for him was try to understand, support, hope that he would come to peace. Not to be indelicate, but: “Is it taken care of?”

Anders shifted on his feet. He was nervous about this next part. He lowered his voice, in case there were eavesdroppers beyond the thin canvas walls. “I couldn’t talk with you about it.”

“I’m sorry.” Hawke did look sorry. Maker, if he had known...

It had been lonely, but it was done. Anders brushed a strand of hair out of his face, to hide his eyes from Hawke’s intense, attentive stare for a moment. “That’s our life now, isn’t it? We should have spoken before, so I would have known what you... but... Listen. I had a lot of time to think.” The nights had passed like centuries, he had obsessed about nothing else. “I thought... yes.” Anders smiled the age-old smile, nervous and hopeful, that says _hey, guess what_.

Hawke’s eyes zeroed in on his belt. Anders laughed a little, and self-consciously adjusted the ring buckle against his stomach. It was tight. Discreet, but tight. He looked back up at Hawke.

He wasn’t smiling. Anders had gone through fear, denial, and anger by himself, and had steeled for Hawke’s turns through the same. Anders had hoped for a flash of joy, something spontaneous, but Hawke was worried and uncertain. Anders told himself it was stupid to be hurt. It was a lot to pile on him. They hadn’t seen each other for months. “Maybe we should talk about this later.”

Hawke’s mind raced, reached the end, and he drew closer. “Your decision is mine, Anders. You know that. But we have to do this for the right reasons. Both of us.”

Anders smiled again to hide the sudden tinge of sadness. He was so sure this time. All that had come before... he had his scars, and each was a lesson seared onto his soul. “I’m not trying to replace her. I’m not trying to...” No repeats of the past.

Hawke nodded, chewing at his thumb nail, thinking on things. They were always traveling. There were skirmishes, ambushes. Their camp was a constant, if moving, target. “It’s a hard time.”

Anders had thought about all of these things. Thought about them, dismissed them, decided they could be overcome. There were pressing variables on the other side of the equation. “I’m getting older.”

“Thirty is not old.” Hawke shook his head.

Closing in on his mid-thirties, point of fact. Not insurmountable, in and of itself. But then...

“I’m a Grey Warden.” Easy to forget, for a while. Time wasn’t on his side. Who knew when the dark voices might grow louder, too loud to ignore? There was Justice, perhaps he would buy some time. Anders didn’t know. All he knew was that he was a marked man, even if the chief worry for today and tomorrow was that a templar sword might find his heart.

No matter. He wouldn’t leave Hawke alone, not if he could help it. This was a way to give Hawke comfort and joy after he was gone. Love to last between them until the day Hawke joined him again at the seat of the Maker.

Hawke was still thinking. “Can we afford to get out of it?” Things were still chaos, but slowly, delicate firmaments were starting to arch across the land. As the Chantry’s rule eroded, they rallied. Organized. It would take time, but they would have a force ready to stand in solidarity and face the old order, wherever it still clung to power.

“It wouldn’t mean the end of the war for me. It just means... I would need you.” He couldn’t do it by himself. He didn’t want to try.

Hawke put his hand up to touch Anders’s face, his thumb ghosting over his cheekbone. “You _have_ me.”

Anders ducked his head against Hawke’s palm, and Hawke’s fingers ran back through his hair. “I missed you.”

Hawke kissed him. “I missed you, too.”

He pulled away, just as Anders had begun to feel secure. Anders frowned as Hawke drew an envelope out of his pack.

Hawke pushed the envelope to him. “You need to see this.” And then Hawke had to burn it. (There was another piece of intelligence -- Fenris, who had fallen fighting them at the Gallows, might still be among the living. Hawke decided to keep this to himself.)

Anders recognized the seal of the Grey Wardens, and that of the Hero of Ferelden. He split the seals, unfolded the message, and scanned quickly over the writing. An invitation. He and Hawke to come to a rendezvous, alone, by this time next year.

“Why doesn’t she want --?” Anders waved his hand to indicate their allies, the camp around them.

“I don’t know, but I think we should go. If we secure her help, Anders, maybe we can win while we’re ahead. Before the costs are too great.” War wasn’t a straight push. It was swings of fortune, like a pendulum, stirring blood in the waters of life. Hawke paused. He was all for this idea, going to meet the Warden-Commander, but now there was much more to think of. He looked to Anders. “Over-land. A year. Can we do it?”

There was fatalism in Anders, wedded strangely to his sense of his own strength and his defiance. He had taken on the Chantry, the templars, the hated status quo, and he wasn’t dead yet. He wouldn’t live forever, but some things were more important than his life. Easing Hawke’s pain, repaying to the fullest the love that Hawke had shown him, had ascended alongside his devotion to the cause. Two things that surpassed his own life, two things he would die for. He nodded. “We can do it.”

Of course, living to fight and love another day: that would be fine by him, too. He was gazing at Hawke oddly. “It seems a shame.”

“What?”

“You just got dressed.”

It was chilly outside, but the tent was suddenly confined and warm. Hawke’s smile was slow. Anders was already in his arms.

They pushed books out of the way and ended up on blankets. Anders was on top of him, straddling him, chasing Hawke’s tongue while Hawke freed them. He all but tore the buttons aside, and the leather tie at Anders’s waist.

They fell together, Anders rubbing against Hawke, and still kissing. Lips, throat, down to where just a glimpse of his chest was visible in his collar. Anders got his long hands under Hawke’s shirt, running up the fluttering muscles of his abdomen, using his nails to scratch down the strong groove. The energy made undressing the work of a few short pulls of pants and shirts, and he and Anders were lying on the blankets, twisting together, naked.

Hawke caged them in his fingers, stroking them side by side as Anders’s hands got reacquainted. Thick muscles, long limbs, raised, tough ridges of scars across his shoulder and down his arm. Anders traced them. Hawke’s topography, familiar land that breathed and held him. He smelled like long, sweaty traveling, perfunctory baths in cold rivers. Anders buried his nose at Hawke’s chest, in the wiry, dark hair, and into the fold of his arm. He inhaled. Rough, heavy. Comforting. Hawke was back.

And taking his turn, equally burning to feel his lover and know his body. Hawke let them go, let Anders fall hard and heavy against his thigh. They were too close to see each other clearly, just flashes of blue and amber irises haloed around black pupils as their lips met and broke apart. Hawke found those places on Anders’s skin, the crux of his elbow, the ticklish nerves behind his knee, his navel. Hawke hooked a fingertip in, gently, and pressed. Anders growled as the pleasure-pain of it, like a hot pinch inside, shot to his groin. They were places Hawke could play on like a lute, make Anders shiver for him. Anders thrust against Hawke’s leg, rubbing with his palm at Hawke in time with his motions, rocking up his body and kissing him, feeling him throb and get harder beneath Anders’s splayed, stroking hand.

Hawke had his fingers twisted in Anders’s hair, tensing and pulling a little at the roots as Anders kissed across his chest and took a nipple between his teeth. He gave it a nip and pull, tweaking the other, and Hawke’s cock twitched as he groaned. Anders grinned. Point.

Hawke wouldn’t be bested. He dipped two fingers down low, sliding in, scissoring and curling. Anders tightened, gasping as Hawke’s fingertips pressed forward and his stomach suddenly felt deep and molten. He lost his rhythm as Hawke curled his thick fingers again, and he reached for Hawke’s shoulders.

Hawke leaned back and brought Anders with him, dragging Anders along his body. Strong, rough hands on his hips, pulling him into position. Anders spread his thighs and sank home.

* * *

They caught their breath. Hawke was propped on an elbow, looking at Anders flung out beside him. He ran his palm over Anders’s pale chest, down his belly to where he was already rounding out. Hawke’s eyes followed, then up to Anders’s face.

“It’s dangerous.”

Anders smiled. “Tell me how safe you think it is, being a revolutionary.”

“You know what I mean. I couldn’t...” _handle that again_. Any of it. He had looked on helplessly as the healer gave up on their daughter, he had watched Anders fading away. Anders hadn’t been spared, not in the least, but he hadn’t _seen_ what Hawke had seen.

"I know." Anders caught Hawke’s hand and held it tight. “I gave the fates a nudge. Perhaps it’s only fair they get to nudge back.” That wasn’t reassuring. Some of the wryness faded. He smiled gently at Hawke. “What happened to Leandra was rare.”

Hawke searched his partner’s intelligent, determined eyes. Anders had already chosen. He was waiting for Hawke to make up his heart and mind.

Now wasn’t the time for fear or half-measures. They were living on their boots, running. They had to seize every opportunity, live bright and strong. All right.

“I love you.” He meant exactly that. It was a small phrase, but it was infinite sentiments bound up tightly. It meant there were dangers, but he had faith. That he trusted Anders, wanted what he wanted, and would see all things through beside him.

* * *

Varric, whose tent was opposite theirs, saw them duck back outside, all innocence. Three guesses what they had been up to. And Blondie must have told Hawke the happy... well, the news. They were moving with magnetism between them, the bond of two people sharing a secret. Glad to be back together. _Very much in love_ , supplied the well-guarded romantic in his soul. Varric grimaced. Where had that come from? It must be the forest. All the... trees. Birds singing. Misty sunrises. He curled his lip. Ugh.

Year Nine (9:39), Ninth Month (Kingsway)

Two weeks passed while they made preparations for the journey. Equipment, dry food, anything else they would need. The wider camp packed up, too, to head for more strategic ground. Deeper into the eastern Free Marches, where the population was thinnest. Templar forces were massing, and they weren’t yet ready to fight openly. They weren’t an orderly army, though Cullen and Hawke knew the need for discipline, and had started to train up the eager volunteers. As Hawke and Anders prepared to head back west, the camp dismantled itself and prepared to move in the opposite direction under Cullen’s nominal leadership.

The Hero of Ferelden had requested they come alone. There were fewer hurt feelings than expected: Aveline, through Donnic’s machinations and her die-hard support among the guard, had been granted amnesty not long after they fled the city. That left Merrill and Varric, to whom they had to make excuses.

Merrill had decided to follow her own path, called back to her people or to unearth some piece of their history. She herself wasn’t sure which. When Varric asked her to stay with Cullen’s forces, lamenting that there wasn’t a ball of twine big enough and she’d get lost in the forests, she just giggled. The Creators looked after their most innocent children. She’d be fine. The next day, she waved at them cheerfully and slipped off among the trees.

That left Varric, who once again knew Hawke and Anders’s affairs almost as well as they did. Hawke took it upon himself, one afternoon while Anders was sleeping, to tell Varric that he and Anders were going their own way. He found the dwarf, as usual, sitting just outside his tent on one of the felled tree trunks that were scattered as seating around the camp.

Varric listened, didn’t press for what Hawke couldn’t tell him, but he did have some objections. For one, Blondie wasn’t going to be an easy man to travel with, not for long. Second, he wasn’t quite so enamored with the idea of Hawke and Anders spending the next half-year alone.

“Just the two of you, hidden out here in the middle of nowhere? That doesn’t seem right, Hawke.” Varric spoke in a low voice, because their corner of the camp wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t exactly private. “Especially not now. What if you need help?”

That was one of the million things screaming for attention in Hawke’s mind. But Anders was confident. “I know, but he says --”

Anders came out of the tent where he had been napping. Hawke and Varric both fell quiet. Anders gave them a look.

“Well, not hard to guess what you’ve been talking about,” Anders said, joining them at the fire circle. He had a pack in his hands. “Go on, insult my intelligence. ‘We were just having an innocent chat about wallop, Anders’.”

Hawke remained silent, but Varric shook his head. “It’s stupid to let you go off on your own.”

“We’ll be fine.” Anders stepped over Dog and took a seat opposite Hawke, on a convenient crate. He started digging in their food pack for something sweet.

“All I’m saying is, you might need help,” Varric argued. “If you’re dead-set on roughing it in the Free Marches, someone’s going to have to hump the gear. That wasn’t a pun.” Varric’s eyes flicked to some mental notebook. _Good title, though._

Anders had found some dried fruit and scooped out a handful. “We’re going to travel light.”

Anders thought he’d be able to haul his share. Varric, meanwhile, had seen Hawke shuffling things between their packs at night, when Anders had nodded off in exhaustion. Trying to fit everything into his own bag.

Anders smiled at Varric gratefully. “Anyway, you’ve already been a big help.” He had confided in Varric, during those weeks he was waiting for Hawke. Varric had risen to the occasion with typical, almost suspicious, dexterity.

Varric waved a hand, dismissive. “Tracking down a few jars of pickled things? Get real, Blondie.” That was all he could bear to eat. What was Varric meant to have done, let him starve to death? Hawke would have _carved_ him.

Hawke put a hand on Varric’s shoulder and spoke very gravely, trying not to grin. “You’ve no idea how crucial that is.”

“All right. Moving on,” Anders said archly. _Don’t laugh at me._

Hawke smiled apologetically, affectionately. He remembered these moods.

Anders ignored him. “You’ve been too good to us, Varric, but it’s time for you to get back to your guild. What of those famous merchant-prince power struggles? The cloak-and-dagger? Your imaginary cousin can’t keep things running forever. You might not have a sovereign to your name if you don’t get back soon.” Anders injected the appropriate horror into his voice. “What if they rent out your suite at the Hanged Man?”

Varric shook his head slowly. “I don’t give a shit about any of that.”

Sarcasm failed Anders. He looked at Hawke. “We’ll be fine. We’ve... got plans.”

“Like what?” Varric knew Hawke hadn’t told him the whole story. They weren’t just going to ground, after all.

Anders was silent, and Varric turned to the Champion. “What’s going on, Hawke?”

Now that Anders had let the cat peek out of the bag... Hawke smiled. “Maybe you should go home, Varric.”

Varric eyed his two friends. He had a good imagination and he couldn’t begin to guess what they might be up to. Crazy bastards, the pair of them. Of course. Crazy was endemic to the heroic type.

Varric surrendered, raising his gloved hands. “All right. I get you. I’m not going to cause you any trouble.”

* * *

The camp broke two days later, at dawn, and set off on its march east. Hawke, Anders, and Varric lingered to see each other on their separate ways.

Varric was going to follow the valley down to the river, where he could hire a craft to take him back toward the coast and Kirkwall. He didn’t know what sort of welcome he’d receive in the city, but he had money, and forgiveness was surprisingly cheap. Hawke and Anders were bound … who knew where. Uphill, north, toward the mountains, into the wild forest gloom. The three of them stood together amid the cold, ashy remains of the camp’s fire pits, near where their tents had stood, to say their goodbyes.

“We’ll miss you,” Anders said.

Varric grunted. “Don’t get mushy, Blondie. I hate that face.”

“What face?”

“You pull your eyebrows together and pout like the loneliest little nug in the nest.” Varric snorted. “Makes me want to ruffle your hair.”

“... I don’t ‘ _pout_ ’,” Anders said indignantly.

Hawke suddenly stooped and hugged Varric.

Varric’s eyes went wide.“By Andraste, and I was worried about _Blondie_. How about you two hug each other and leave me out of this.” But he gave Hawke’s back a firm pat, and felt a twinge of something like sadness when Hawke released him.

Then he surveyed the valley, the rising sun glittering in the mist still clinging to the treetops. The ghostly smoke from drenched campfires, wending up into the pale sky. “This works, you know. Atmospheric. And people just love the open-ended tales. It really spurs the imagination.” He switched to his narrating voice. “‘I last saw them on a road high above the port. And fearsome Hawke, his was the heart of a warrior-poet. He went soft like cheese on a hot day, and the tears fell as he bid me goodbye...’”

Hawke was feeling the pommel of his sword. “I’ll hunt you down.”

Varric laughed. “I’m leaving the ending open for now, but it better be a happy one. Let me know.”

Dog barked. Varric turned to him, too, and gave him a companionable scritch between his ears. “I’ll miss our games of diamondback.”

The dog barked happily, did a turn of him, and then stood ready by Hawke.

“Right.” Time to go. Varric shook hands with Anders. “Take care of Hawke.”

Anders grinned, and everyone gathered up their packs.

That was the last he saw of them. Two figures and a mabari hound, disappearing into the green wood.

* * *

They rarely ran into other human beings, and they both liked it that way. They didn’t have to hide. When removed from all the suspicious looks, the wrong assumptions, the judging stares, Anders found that he almost enjoyed this. Being what he was. Being himself. This was rare liberty and invisibility. He was with Hawke, and they were free.

Justice wasn’t _sated_ , he never would be, but for now he had his triumph, and Anders caught his breath. He was calmer, more peaceful within, than he had been in a very long time, and he found himself coming to know Hawke all over again. It felt as though he had been away for years and years. In many ways he _had_ been, and it frightened him, how much he had missed in his partner. He was funnier than Anders remembered. Had more stories to tell. There was a smoothness to him, the rough Ferelden lad had grown into a hero; confident, smart, and even a touch of _élan_.

There was also a line of grief in his soul, a hollow place, identical to the one Anders carried in his own breast. But he was somehow more patient, steadier, than Anders had ever suspected. Hawke was not easy about the future, but he was strong and willing to face whatever time and the fates brought their way. These months were an intense, bright coming together, making up for lost time.

It was sobering for Anders to think it was his demons, his mania, that had pulled them apart. That Hawke was here at the end of it all, arms open, grateful to have him back... he would never understand, and never be worthy of it.

He didn’t want these days to end.

* * *  
Year Ten (9:40), Second Month (Drakonis)

If the world needed books on the art of making camp with a very pregnant mage in tow, Hawke could write several. He could throw in a bonus volume about being on the run with someone who couldn’t, well, run. Nor do much of the tent-pitching, trapping, lugging, and carrying, and who, despite Hawke’s efforts, was constantly over-working himself.

That they stayed out of sight, ahead of all who were hunting them, that they _survived_ , must have been by direct, personal favor of the Maker.

When Anders woke with pains and soaked robes, Hawke went outside to pray, something he hadn’t done in a very, very long time.

It was over by early afternoon. A sudden, angry intake of breath and a loud first wail. Anders stared down at the new pair of eyes, opened wide in rage to confront the insultingly cold world, and felt Hawke’s arm around him, squeezing him against Hawke’s shoulder, and lips pressing his forehead. He started to laugh. Or cry. He wasn’t sure. Either way, it felt good.

* * *

Anders was through, and he was holding the baby to him, in his robe next to his skin. He was looking happy and tired. Triumphant. “We did it.”

Hawke laughed. He knelt beside Anders, trying to wrap them in yet another blanket. “I didn’t do a thing.” He finished bundling the blanket around Anders’s shoulders, leaned over, and touched just a fingertip to a tiny, _unbelievably_ tiny hand.

Anders gazed at Hawke. “Neither of us would be here without you.” And his eyes turned to the small, sleeping form again, drinking in the sight. “ _Maker_.”

It seemed unreal. This new little being here with them. To stay. To protect, love, teach... what was this? Happiness? He didn’t know what to do with the feeling. This joy that was his and Hawke’s, and no one could take it away. “...What do we do now?”

Hawke laughed again. He was just as giddy, feeling like the ground was the sky. What _did_ they do now? “Are you hungry?”

With effort, Anders remembered what ‘hunger’ was, like fumbling in a distant second or third language. ‘Hunger’. That seemed like a petty concern, for someone who wasn’t so ecstatically _happy_. He realized, “Starving.”

Hawke kissed him again. “I’ll make some food.”

* * *

Year 10 (9:40), Fourth Month (Cloudreach)

Kirkwall. The Hanged Man. Varric got his hands on his first ale and downed it in three swallows.

Maker, she had kept him talking a long time. He kicked his feet up on a jewel-encrusted chest, a stout, shiny present to himself after another successful quarter of trade, and pulled a piece of paper out of his inner pocket. He looked at it again in the fire’s light.

The note had arrived this morning, just before he had been grabbed for an audience with that fine lady, the Seeker. The scrap of paper had traveled far to get to him. It was dated seven weeks ago.

 _all well  
ten fingers, ten toes  
Malcolm Carver_

Varric raised his glass again in silent salute to his distant friends. Well done, Blondie.


	16. Epilogue, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Contains male lactation kink.

The first few days as a family were something of a trial by fire. Hawke and Anders had chosen a well-hidden spot to wait for Malcolm, a cave and a wooded hillside away from villages and busy thoroughfares. Lucky, because the boy had a set of lungs.

They struggled through sleepless nights, as Malcolm woke them almost on the hour for feedings or just to wail. Hawke found himself wishing for his father, or mother. Someone who could guide or help them. Bethany... He would even have been glad to see his uncle Gamlen.

Anders kept a remarkable handle on things. They were both lost, but Hawke was constantly looking to him. He was trying to take the lead, Maker knew. This was harder than he thought it would be.

As now, having just coaxed Malcolm through another feeding. It had taken an hour, and that was an improvement. Now Malcolm was sleeping against his shoulder, sniffling slightly as he breathed near Anders’s ear.

He rubbed Malcolm’s back and tried to think of the next item on the to-do list.

It was already getting dark outside. The cave was dim, lit with their single oil lamp. It was warm, without being too warm. Their bedding took up most of the floor, no longer neatly-ordered and folded sleeping pallets but more of a gathered nest of blankets where they dropped off themselves, the moment Malcolm fell asleep. There wasn’t much else, just what they could carry. But it was, for the moment, home. Close, sandy, dry, and most of all, it was safe.

So why did he feel so anxious? It wasn’t just lack of sleep. There was something... wrong with him. Malcolm was beautiful, alive, his and Hawke’s. Everything they had worked for, everything they had wanted. And out there, beyond their little glow of fire and safe haven, he had set boots, staffs, and swords in motion toward a better future. For the first time in his life, things were going as he had planned.

He was too old to believe in perfect, shiny happily-ever-afters, but why couldn’t he stop bloody crying? He awkwardly tried to scrub at his face one-handed.

Anders heard Hawke’s voice. “All right?”

Hawke _would_ pick that moment to bring in the washing. Anders delicately set Malcolm in his basket, careful not to wake him, and turned around to see Hawke putting down the stack of cleaned linens.

“What’s wrong?” Hawke asked.

Anders gave him a look, the venom not at all diluted by the fact that he was teary-eyed. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Hawke had checked with a midwife in one of the villages. His “wife” (he would never tell Anders he had used the word), just given him a child, seemed to cry as much as the baby. Completely usual, he had been assured. The cure was patience and time. She had also mentioned hugs, but Anders didn’t look like a man who wanted to be hugged.

Hawke kept his distance. He had been trained by all those times past, when it seemed like Anders would fall through his fingers if Hawke tried to tightened his grip. Hawke forced himself to ignore the tears and got back down to the endless business of having a newborn. “Washing’s done.”

Now there was guilt on top of the anxiousness and the inexplicable anger, because Anders could see Hawke stepping back, letting it all break over him without comment. Anders closed his eyes tightly for a second, to get himself under control.

Hawke was still there when he opened them. “How are you?” Anders asked, embarrassed.

When Hawke wasn’t fetching water from the river, checking the traps with Dog, making food, washing up, holding Malcolm while Anders caught up on sleep (as if Hawke was getting any more than he was), or trying to keep them in some semblance of contact with the wider world -- well, amid all that, they barely had time to talk. They spoke to one another, of course, but a _conversation_ , like two proper adults... not in days.

Hawke shrugged, flipping his hands. “I’m fine. Tired.” Yes, he supposed “tired” about covered it. “How are you?”

Anders uncrossed his arms, and immediately crossed them again. His shirt had wet spots, and he pulled at the material in distaste. “I feel like a...”

The simile didn’t quite come off. No easy way to say what he felt. A small player on a big stage. He was in the service of nature’s whims, the ancient ways that ensured survival, that new life sprang and flourished. Nature had her tricks and her demands. She wouldn’t let one of her children wither on the vine. Malcolm had to eat, so Anders had to provide. He wrinkled his nose. He supposed nobody’s dignity survived parenthood.

“He needs you.” Hawke smiled sympathetically.

“I know. It’s just... strange.” _After all this time, Anders, you’re still holding out hope for_ usual?

Ah, the little voice. Not Justice, the other one. Himself. Then his stomach gurgled, and Anders rolled his eyes. “And if I could stop being _hungry_ for ten minutes. _Andraste’s underskirts._ ”

He gave Hawke’s arm a sharp, punishing pinch when Hawke grinned, and then Anders was grinning back. Hawke’s easy sympathy was too inviting. He bit at his lip. Maybe talking about it _would_ help. “I was thinking. And --”

Shrill, sudden, I-will-not-be-ignored cries from the basket at their feet. They looked at each other. Your turn? My turn? Make the dog take a turn?

“My turn again,” Anders said. He needed the practice, right? He rubbed his forehead. “It was nice visiting with you. We’ll have to do this again sometime.” He laughed, because if he didn’t, he would have cried. Again.

Hawke grimaced in their shared frustration, and raised his voice slightly over the din. “I’ll make dinner.”

* * *

That was how it was. Working to the same end, but so much like ships passing in the night. Exhausted. Hawke fixed a meal, and Anders joined him outside. As Anders served himself a share of the food, he glanced over at Hawke. Hawke was sitting cross-legged on the ground, with Malcolm asleep in the crook of his elbow.

Hawke was afraid to move too much, almost to breathe, lest he crush this slip of life. “He’s so... small.” It was still amazing to him. Everyone started out this tiny?

“He’ll get bigger. He’s a week old, Garrett. Give him a chance.”

Fair enough, Hawke’s chuckle said. Malcolm stirred, and he went absolutely still.

Anders settled nearby, a bowl of broth and bread balanced on his lap. By Andraste, it was nice to have both hands free for a change. He kept an eye on Hawke, who was staring down at their son. There was something sacred about the look on Hawke’s face, the light in his eyes. Pride and joy, in the most literal sense of the words. Some of the anxiety evaporated.

Hawke looked up and smiled. “What were you thinking? Before?”

Anders thought Hawke had forgotten. He hadn’t. Hawke waited for him to speak.

“Nothing,” Anders said finally. No, he couldn’t. Not after all that had happened, after swearing to Hawke that this was what he wanted. He knew he should be happier. The guilt was a terrible weight inside, but he couldn’t betray Hawke again. No more weakness. He forced himself to smile. “It’s all right. Nothing.”

Hawke nodded, seemed satisfied, and the evening went on.

With Malcolm safely stowed away for however long he would sleep, and the sun long set, they were finally free to sleep themselves. Hawke finished checking the campsite, Dog took up his place as furry sentinel at the cave’s mouth, and they crawled into the blankets.

Anders was in his own huddle, pulling his blanket around him. He was still after-bleeding, and feeling filthy. This wasn’t like Kirkwall, where he could keep clean. Hot baths whenever he had wanted. A few years in Hawke’s house, every comfort Hawke’s money could buy (never getting complacent, ungrateful), had apparently made him soft. He missed the water furnace.

He was musing on this, trying to ignore how sticky he felt and how badly he smelled, when Hawke turned on his side to face him. “Ready to tell me what you were really thinking?”

Anders blinked. “What?”

“Earlier. You were going to say something. It wasn’t ‘nothing’.”

Anders had always hated confessing. The patronizing ‘absolution’, the pity. What he hated more, though, was the idea of hurting Hawke again. “No, it was nothing.”

Hawke furrowed his brow.

 _He doesn’t trust me. He has no reason to._

Anders pushed the blanket aside and propped himself up, hesitantly. He could smell the bloody rags he was using. Surely Hawke could, too. But Hawke was scared. He had to do something. If Hawke recoiled, well --

That little bridge of invitation was enough. Hawke moved toward him and wrapped his arms around his back. He didn’t know how Hawke could stand to touch him, but Hawke embraced him.

“I wish you’d talk to me.” Hawke knew something was amiss. He was too perceptive, and too painfully familiar with Anders’s remorse. Please, Maker, not again.

Anders sensed Hawke’s fear, and that overcame his own. He pressed Hawke back, just enough to see his eyes, full of worry. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t want to cry. I’m not sad.” He was being held very tightly now. “I love you. And him. He’s perfect, Garrett, he... Maker, I’m so happy I could die. This is what I want. Where I want to be. I just... ”

Hawke heard the words spill out, each one a little glimpse of the truth that was inside. He understood, even though the words were clumsy. They were in it together.

Anders could read him, too. The unspoken confession he was making. If Hawke himself wasn’t euphoric... was wondering what exactly they had gotten themselves into... it didn’t mean he was _un_ happy. It only meant they were exhausted, frightened, trapped people: new parents. They exchanged wan smiles.

On that note, Anders pulled away, sat up, and leaned over to check on Malcolm. He was sleeping soundly, looking very serious. His little fists were clenched tight, drawn almost up to his chin. Anders watched him for a few moments.

Satisfied, Anders turned back to Hawke. He said he was grimy, Hawke said he didn’t care, and Anders decided to believe him. He settled, fitting against Hawke’s side, and Hawke pulled the blankets up around them.

Anders couldn’t keep his eyes open. Every sense was leaden. The rhythmic rise and fall of Hawke’s chest, his warmth, being held close, would have spun sleep around him even if he wasn’t dead tired. Now it was an irresistible pull toward oblivion. He could hear Hawke’s heart marching steadily, and he faded out.

Hawke lay awake, tired as he was, and listened to Anders breathe. Anders’s head was heavy on his shoulder. Occasionally he whimpered, barely audible, or flinched, and Hawke kept hold of him, one arm anchored around his back.

Grey Warden nightmares never faded. Hawke had grown used to the idea of their bed being a sort of... group affair. Justice, whatever approached Anders in the Fade, the far-off evils of darkspawn. That was sharing a bed with a mage and Warden. Strange, sometimes, but what mattered was Anders against him, his hair tickling at Hawke’s collar. Hawke unfurled his arm, feeling just past Anders to the shallow basket where Malcolm was sleeping. He touched the back of two fingers to Malcolm’s warm cheek, very gently, to reassure himself. Everyone present and accounted for, safe and sound.

Whatever story Varric told the world about the Champion of Kirkwall, he was going to have to leave out the most incredible parts.

* * *

They intended to stay put until the four-week milestone, when Malcolm moved from newborn to infant. Hawke had been in busy contact with some of their allies, though, and things were moving on the world. Time was short. The Divine had rallied her forces and put out a call, and the Champion and the Hero needed to meet and decide their answer.

There was no question of separating again, even if Anders was exhausted, almost terrified, at the idea of packing up and moving on when they were just finding their footing and settling into a routine. The fight that he had started was calling them back.

So they went. Anders repeated his mantra, a constant reminder, when he strapped a bag to his sometimes-aching back, put Malcolm in his sling, and followed Hawke across miles of landscape: this was more important than the two... the three of them.

They had been on the move for three weeks, now. Malcolm had made that one-month milestone on the road. He was six weeks old, and had seen what Anders’s feet were sure was half of Thedas.

They covered fair distance, two days on the march, a day to rest. On those off days, one of them went into the nearest village for odds and ends and, to be honest, a break from Malcolm. (Usually -- well, always -- Hawke. Anders had gone once, been overcome with guilt halfway there, and turned back. He had taken this on willingly. Justice’s inflexiblity had entered his soul, and to leave Malcolm unattended -- even in Hawke’s arms -- seemed like dereliction of duty. Even if being constantly on duty was slowly killing him.)

Today was a day of rest, and Hawke was returning from the mud and smoke of a trading village. He had left their camp at dawn, and had ended up spending half the day helping to clear up after a barn fire. He had a nice pocketful of coin, and some other tokens of gratitude.

Coming back, he always took a circuit through the forest, wary of being followed. They were still keen on staying out of sight. Sometimes he lost his way in the unfamiliar trees, but today he heard Malcolm’s cries from a good distance away. A beacon. He smiled. He turned his footsteps that way and was soon met by Dog, always patrolling the perimeter.

Things at camp weren’t peaceful. He arrived back in the clearing to find Malcolm still sobbing, and Anders himself in tears. Frustrated, tired tears. He had Malcolm held against his shoulder, rubbing his back. There were a few books spread around, the ones Anders had decided were essential and made room to carry with them. They were full of wisdom for healing and infant care, but now they were scattered on the ground, splayed where they had landed, as if they had let Anders down and been flung away.

Hawke set down the things he had hauled back from the village. “What happened?”

Anders shook his head miserably. “I don’t know what he needs. I - I don’t know what to do.” Anders wiped at his eyes. “He’s been crying for hours. He’s not hungry. He’s not sick. I’ve tried everything.”

“Maybe he just wants to cry.” Hawke leaned down and kissed Anders’s head, putting a hand on his slumped shoulders.

“What am I doing wrong?” Anders asked.

“Nothing. He’s alert, he feeds well. He’s growing. He’s healthy, Anders. You’re doing everything right.”

Anders offered Malcolm to Hawke. Hawke took him, lifted him up in front of his face. “Giving your da’ a hard time, are you?”

Malcolm’s tightly-screwed eyes, red and wet, opened. He gave a few silent sobs, out of breath, and Hawke tucked Malcolm to him. He looked Anders over. “You look like you could use a nap.”

“I should do something _worthwhile_ ,” he said darkly.

“Anders, it’s not --”

“I can’t even look after our son. What use am I?” And where were you? he added, silently.

Before Hawke could explain, Malcolm found his voice after the few false starts. Anders shied away from the noise like a kicked puppy.

Hawke frowned. He knew what wit’s end looked like. “I’m sorry. You rest. I’ll take Malcolm, and we’ll go find some delicious berries. Won’t we? Down in that gully, where he can scream at the trees all he likes.”

Anders gave a small shrug. He was exhausted. Not being able to quiet Malcolm had unraveled him. Filled him with doubt and disappointment in himself. He wasn’t a good parent, he couldn’t tell what his own child needed. He had heard parents agonize over this before, but he wasn’t prepared for how awful, desperate, useless, and absolutely _shit_ it made him feel. His patience was long worn out, and all he wanted to do was cry and sleep.

He helped Hawke wind the sling around his shoulder and tuck the still-crying infant inside. Hawke gave him another kiss, a hard squeeze of his hand, told him to rest, and set off, Dog loping along.

The cries retreated into the trees, and as they faded, Anders was finally able to breathe again. He started to clear up some of the day’s mess. Malcolm’s dirty clothing, the food he had burned trying to make lunch. Then he gave up, kicked everything into a pile, and crawled into their tent.

The sun was almost set when he woke again. Through the gaps in the tent, he could see that the fire was blazing outside. He opened the tent flap and surveyed the little campsite. Hawke had returned, managed to get the fire going, and had prepared some food for himself and Anders. Malcolm was sucking on a carved pacifier that Hawke had picked up some time ago.

He had come back and just... sorted everything. Anders was caught somewhere between “I love you” and “ _You bastard_.”

“Good sleep?” Hawke asked, as Anders joined him.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been gone so long. It won’t happen again. I promise.” He smiled and went on to more pleasant business. “He’s probably getting hungry, and then I got us this.” Hawke reached down and lifted a bottle from his bag.

It took Anders a moment to recognize it. “Wine? To drink?” A stupid question, but it had been a long day.

“The healer in town told me it was safe. For you and him. Not quaffing the whole bottle, maybe, but a drink or two. We can celebrate.”

Anders’s eyes narrowed in thought. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well.” Hawke pretended to ponder. “Seven years ago tonight, I left my door open for a certain sexy, tortured Darktown apostate.” Hawke grinned, tempered with self-consciousness at the nonplussed look on Anders’s face. They had rarely marked the day before, but it was a chance to celebrate _something_. They hadn’t done much of that these past few years, and the last weeks with Malcolm... well, they could both use a drink. And, if he was honest, it was the sort of thing Hawke liked to note. Even if Anders was staring at him in confusion.

Anders’s face twitched in surprise and sudden recollection. He tilted his head. “Why can’t I remember these things?”

A kaleidoscope of the last seven years flashed in Hawke’s brain. All of the highs, lows, silences, and roaring rushes; the red flash above the chantry; and he looked down, finally, at the baby in the sling against his chest. “You’ve been busy.” His smile was pure affection, if a touch ironic.

Malcolm opened his eyes and mouthed unhappily at the pacifier. He started to mutter. Hawke clicked his tongue at him. “You _are_ hungry. Sorry, buddy, I can’t do much for you. Over to your dad.”

Anders took him back and realized, with Malcolm’s weight in his hands, how much he had missed him. The afternoon was forgotten as he situated Malcolm, holding him close. He kissed the tiny, scrunched forehead, and Malcolm mewled impatiently.

“All right, all right. I’m just a buffet to you, aren’t I?”

Hawke had the denial on his lips when the tone registered. Anders was beaming at their son, smiling. By Andraste, he had been making a _joke_. Hawke felt a half-ton lighter. It was okay. Storm passed, a glimpse of brilliant, clear skies. Hawke brought him a plate and sat down beside him.

They ate, drank, and Anders put Malcolm down to sleep. He made sure he wouldn’t be cold, but not crowded, and backed away from the basket. He sensed Hawke behind him, in the tent that was suddenly very close.

Anders turned around. Licked his lower lip. “We’ve only got a few hours.”

“Hours.” Hawke’s eyebrows jumped. “What are you planning?”

Anders laughed. It was a sound Hawke didn’t hear enough.

Anders lunged. He pulled the shirt off Hawke’s shoulders, trapping Hawke in a quick rush of fabric as he yanked it in over his head in one go. They finished stripping off and then they slowed, lying together, whispering and quiet, reverent to the reality that they were three, not two.

In the lantern light, close up, he took a look at Hawke and at himself. Hawke had the darker Ferelden coloring, a quiet hint of tan-gold to his skin and rich brown in his hair. Every inch of him was still taut and muscled, and Anders felt childish pique, lying there in his own Anderfels-pale body. “It’s not fair.”

“Hm?” One of Hawke’s hands was at the small of his back, cradling the base of his spine.

“I could bounce a coin off you.” He flicked Hawke’s bare, trim stomach. He had a feeling his own would never manage statuesque again. And his chest... well. A coarser man might say something about bits. Bronze bits. _Small currency_. Not noticeable when he was clothed, but he was aware, especially beside Hawke.“And I’m...”

Hawke answered with a low sound as he rubbed up Anders’s side, down his hip, and gave his thigh a squeeze. He was already standing full and warm, obviously hungry, but everything about him was gentle. He was going to let Anders take the lead in this slow dance.

Anders pulled Hawke over him. He was almost numb to touching, always being so close to Malcolm -- but this was different, very different. The electric way Hawke’s stubble caught and dragged against his lips, tiny sparks of pleasure-pain, broke through the fog. The steam as Hawke traced the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue and blew. Every sense heightened, reached out for the universe around him and the body next to his. He heard rain start to fall outside, pelting through the trees and rushing off the canvas of their tent as Hawke’s warm hands ran over him. He mouthed Anders’s earlobe and Anders shivered, enjoying the feel of hands and kisses.

This was good. He could happily lie here and just enjoy Hawke doing this. His lids were heavy.

“Going to fall asleep?” Hawke asked, amused.

Anders forced his eyes wider. He’d never forgive himself. Finally a moment for them, alone, and the wine making his veins glow with summery heat. He weighed Hawke in his hand, drew the length through his fingers, and the swell and twitch sent heat low in Anders’s stomach.

His chest was heavy and tingling. Darkened buds rose under Hawke’s fingertips, and Anders felt sudden, chilly leak as his body responded to the want Hawke was stoking inside of him. It was some relay and response, a deep connection, magic in his blood and soul. The part of him for their child, and the part of him that craved Hawke. He loved Hawke, and that love had brought them their son. After the fractious voices, all the confusion and anger, he felt tied together.

Hawke had stopped what he was doing, and was looking at Anders. It killed the glow in him, brought him back to reality. Here was Hawke, and here was his body. Unexpected, undignified, and embarrassing.

Anders colored, and felt for one of Malcolm’s cloths. Clean up, cover himself. “I’m sorry.”

“Anders.”

Anders looked at him desperately.

“I love you.”

Hawke kissed the blush on his cheekbones beneath his surprised eyes, and followed the hot, flushed skin down Anders’s neck, tracing the pounding line of pulse to his collarbone. He dipped a fingertip to the white, warm fluid and drew a small circle around the nipple. Anders drew in a sharp breath.

He was still half-grasping for something to clean up with. Hawke looked into his eyes, ducked, and used his tongue. Anders arched as Hawke collected the traces of sweetness, his thoughts lost in eddies and currents of firing nerves as Hawke’s tongue swirled with just the right sort of roughness. Milk welled and beaded again, and again Hawke kissed him, licked it away. Anders went wet. He was half-erect against Hawke, nudging at his belly, and Hawke took him in hand and drew him through his fist. Anders was awake, now. He had caught fire and he was burning, like embers about to rise into flames.

Hawke buried his nose next to Anders’s ear. “What do you want to do?”

He spread his legs, drawing Hawke closer to him. After years of feeling wrong and broken, he was almost whole. It might hurt. He didn’t care.

Hawke brushed lower to see if Anders was ready. Absolutely. Hawke’s eyes were dark as coal, and he could barely think past the screaming, heavy need to be inside. He shifted into position and Anders reached down to help guide him. He entered surely, but gently, inch by slow inch.

A lot of pressure, deep, and Anders relaxed and embraced it as Hawke filled him.

Ah, Maker, that hardness where he felt empty. He could smell the rain and the rising earth, the burning wick in the lamp, and Hawke’s closeness. He could feel hot breath on his skin, Hawke’s weight on him, and insistent, stretching fullness, the missing piece. There was a little pain, a sting and ache, instantly swallowed up in an all-body shudder as Hawke groaned into his shoulder.

Anders dug in his fingertips, trying to keep himself silent. “Don’t wake him up,” he managed.

Hawke picked his head up, eyes wide in horror. He shook his head.

Anders laughed -- again Hawke was silently glad -- and wound his fingers in Hawke’s short hair and pulled.

Anders closed his eyes as Hawke surged in him, thrust, and retreated, just to take him again. He was set free, chasing Anders’s soul through that feeling of togetherness, being held tight inside, the biting grip of Anders’s fingers on his shoulders.

Hawke leaned over to catch Anders’s mouth. Nails dug into Hawke’s back, dragging him forward, closer, harder, until Hawke felt Anders shaking with the pleasure of it, trembling among the blankets, rolling his hips up against his. He held on until Anders came, the waves wringing him, fluttering and squeezing around him - for him, because of him - and lost himself in his own sudden, answering release. Together and alive.

Some words rose from hazy memory. Hawke was on top of him, against his heart. Right here, until the day we die.


	17. Epilogue, Part Two

Zevran melted out of the trees. “Our friends have arrived.”

The Hero of Ferelden, the Warden-Commander, nodded at him and rose to her feet. For the last day or so she had felt another Warden’s approach, on a trajectory guided by their shared sense of each other.

“Four of them,” Zevran reported.

“Four?”

A few moments later, two men came into the clearing flanked by a mabari. The Champion was in front. The Warden-Commander had heard of him, of course. He was tall, with short, dark hair, a goatee of stubble, and two bags on his shoulders. He was also armed; a great sword’s hilt was visible among the bags. He looked like he would be at home in a full suit of armor, though he wasn’t wearing any now. He was in traveling clothes, a thick, grey shirt and brown-hide trousers. Following him was --

The Warden stepped forward. “It’s been a long time, Anders.”

Anders smiled at his friend, and she swept her eyes over him. He was wearing leather boots splashed with mud, dark green leggings, and a long, outer robe with black-feathered pauldrons. Deep, mute colors. His staff was strapped to his back, and there was a green sling crossways against his chest, looped up over his right shoulder and under his left arm. His hair was shorter, messier, and his smile was oddly drawn, nothing like the quick grin of old. The years obviously hadn’t been easy on him.

“Champion,” the Warden said, inclining her head to the man at Anders’s side.

“Commander,” Hawke replied.

Anders couldn’t resist. “Wanted apostate,” he said. The Warden’s smile lit up in recognition.

“Indiscriminate rake,” Zevran put in proudly. A bit more discriminating these days, truth be told. He grinned his white, beaming grin.“Ah, but I think I’ve already made your acquaintances, one sunny afternoon on the Wounded Coast. Such a small world, isn’t it? It’s surely impossible, but if you’ve forgotten: I am Zevran. And this --” he gestured at the Warden beside him -- “Belongs to me.”

The Warden rolled her eyes. Other way around.

“Hawke,” Hawke said simply. He nodded over. “Anders.”

Anders was looking at him coolly. Yes, he remembered Zevran very well.

“But does he belong to you?” Zevran purred.

The Warden ignored him. Two men, a dog... “Where’s the other?” She wasn’t keen on someone lurking around the camp.

A tiny hand rose from the sling across Anders’s chest and swiped clumsily at the feathers hanging from his pauldron. Anders raised his arm and hooked his little finger into the reaching hand, which closed in a sudden fist. There was a light, contented babble.

The Champion smiled proudly. “That’s Malcolm.”

That must be a long story indeed. The Warden locked glances with Anders. No longer a garrulous, 20-odd mage on the run: a revolutionary, someone who had managed to shake an entire world to its foundation. He very plainly hadn’t gotten clear of the fallout. He looked like a broken thing, careworn, like driftwood swept back onto the beach, left to parch and crack on the sand. But for all that, he didn’t look unhappy. And now, apparently, there was a child in tow.

Anders was watching her. Some of the old, friendly spark was in his stare, and he was wearing that look that meant he had something to say. The Warden nodded her head a fraction, private communication just between the two of them. They would talk later. She got back down to business.

“Are you fit to travel?” the Warden asked.

Anders realized three sets eyes of were suddenly staring at him. Four, when Malcolm’s amber ones focused on his face. He smiled. Malcolm grinned back at him.

“We’re fit,” he said.

The Warden addressed their small band. “Tomorrow we cross into Nevarra, then.”

* * *

It was too late in the day to set off again, so Hawke and Anders set up their own corner of the camp and joined Zevran and the Warden to break the ice.

Zevran was introducing himself to Malcolm, danging a golden earring in front of him where he was supported against Hawke, half-swaddled in a blanket.

The Warden followed Anders’s line of sight. The Champion looked comfortable with the child, holding him steady. There was something in that closeness that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She had questions. “Nobody said you’d be bringing some foundling.”

Anders’s jaw worked for a second. “He’s mine.”

“So, you met that nice girl after all?”

A flash of a smirk twisted his mouth, and Anders inclined his head. “Not exactly.”

“What, some tart left you high and dry?”

“He’s mine … and Hawke’s.” At the Warden’s look, Anders smiled a bit like he used to, but he was very still. “Think carefully about your next question - because I’ll it answer honestly.”

The Warden’s face was knowing, canny. Shape-shifting witches of the wild, archdemons, Blights, talking darkspawn, all sorts of magic good and bad. Nothing could throw her anymore, not about the world, not about the people in it. ...And this was a man who had taken a kitten, in his pocket, into the Deep Roads. At any rate the child looked human, felt human, to her senses. “When it comes to you, nothing surprises me.”

Anders relaxed. “It’s good to see you again.”

“We’re going to be traveling. Is this a good idea?” She had watched them set up their share of the camp, and seen the dozens of small things they had done for Malcolm’s sake. A lot of time and energy expended.

Anders glanced again at Hawke, Zevran, and Malcolm. “He just watches the treetops go by. He eats when he’s hungry, he sleeps when he’s tired, he cries when he’s unhappy.” Anders himself was finally free of that last habit. None too soon. It was one thing for Hawke to see him at his worst, but...

“You’re okay, too?”

“You and Hawke,” Anders said, huffing in irritation, then backpedaling with a smile and a shake of his head. “Sorry. It would be nice to go a day without hearing that.”

The Warden crossed her arms loosely. “How are things between you?”

“I remember this, you know,” Anders teased. “‘Here is my shoulder, please cry on it.’ Aren’t you afraid your armor will start to rust through?”

Cut and thrust, like old times. “Just thought you might want an outside ear. Sometimes Zevran’s the last person I want to talk to.” The Warden understood that they had been traveling alone for months. Tensions could run high, boredom and claustrophobia could set in. Sometimes she made Zevran pitch his own tent. (And he laughed his silvery laugh and assured her: when he was longing for her unattainable bed, he did just that.)

Malcolm started to cry. Dog put his ears down.

“Sorry, boy,” Anders said to the mabari. Hawke was trying to get Malcolm untangled from his blanket. Anders quickly stepped over to help, smiled at Hawke, and took Malcolm back to where he was seated beside the Warden. Hungry cries. They’d have to know sooner or later. He looked quickly at Hawke, then he shifted his outer robe and his shirt, and Malcolm was soon content again.

Collective silence, though not really as long as it seemed to Anders and Hawke.

“... He really is _yours_.” The Warden raised her eyebrows. “How’d you do that, then?”

“You probably don’t want to know.” The corner of Anders’s mouth pulled back. “Does it bother you?”

“As I said, I’m not at all surprised.” Join the Wardens, see the world, come to realize nothing could shock you anymore. Oh, dear. Did that make her old?

Anders looked across the camp circle. “Your … friend is staring.”

Zevran was indeed staring. He’d never seen anything so... _interesting_. As a young man he had enjoyed seeing the mothers in Antiva, sitting in the sun. All of that pale, curving flesh, small babes busily growing... such a pageant of _life_. This, too, he found very beautiful. He would like to get a closer look, but the Warden’s warning expression kept him where he was. _Poor Zevran_ , he congratulated himself. _You are still spellbound. Like a dog, you cooperate and come to heel._

The Warden sniffed a laugh. “Don’t mind him. He’s mostly harmless.”

Across the fire, Hawke watched Anders and his old friend. Zevran was looking on, too, and he and Hawke as one decided to give them time to catch up alone. They gathered up the canteens and headed to the river to refill them.

“What happened to you?” the Warden asked, bluntly. They were alone now.

“You remember Justice.”

“All too well.”

“He asked me to... and then... I wrote you that letter. Did you get it?”

“Yes,” she said. His “letter” had been a half-illegible, shaky-handed scribble full of apologies for killing a few of her men and devoid of much sense. Fragments, half-sentences, and jostled words, as if two hands had fought over the pen.

“That’s what happened. And then Hawke, and then the chantry. And then this.” Malcolm was finished, and was gazing at the Warden.

She was examining him in turn. “I think he’s got your nose. Poor lad.”

She held up her two index fingers and made a small flash of octarine jump between them, and then back. Malcolm followed the first arc, the second, staring in surprise, and then he turned his face against Anders’s shirt.

Anders grinned as the Warden dropped her hands and winced. “I was never good with children. The smallest apprentices used to cry when they saw me.”

Malcolm yawned, stretched a little, and Anders shifted him closer for warmth. “He’s not my first,” Anders admitted.

“Oh?” Things were starting to add up. It explained the echo of grief that the Warden sensed in him, even when he smiled.

“She would be four.”

“That must have been hard on you.”

There were no words to describe it. Anders simply nodded. But talking about it felt good. Not speaking of the pain itself, but its continued existence... like something he had bottled up under pressure. “It’s hard to talk to him about it. It’s his pain, too. It’s hard not to start pulling away from each other. Even this many years on.”

“Grief runs its own course. It might never leave. But surely -- you’re lucky in what you have.”

Malcolm was drifting off to sleep in his arms. He was clinging to Anders’s finger again. Anders nodded. “If he hadn’t come along...” It felt like sacrilege, tempting too-capricious fate, to say any more.

“You would have survived?” The Warden finished.

“Yes. Malcolm doesn’t replace her. Nothing can. I’m glad this happened, and I didn’t think it would. But if it hadn’t...” he took her words. “We would have survived.”

Been happy, even. He would have worked hard at loving Hawke, and they would have had happy years together, years not deficient, not lacking. Good, full lives, lived well with self-respect and mutual love, in service to a higher cause. When his hand was ripped from Hawke’s and he went into death, he would have been at peace.

Now, as he looked at Malcolm’s sleeping face, their lives seemed a deeper well. Deeper joys … and deeper fears. (And he was a man who had known fear.) “We’ll try not to slow you down.”

The Warden had a feeling that the Champion would have a few choice words if anyone suggested anything of the sort. It was odd, thinking of Anders as someone’s family. Someone’s lover, someone’s father. The man she had known was... not dead, but certainly changed, and she couldn’t help but mourn the passing.

There was another topic staring them in the face. The Warden-Commander cleared her throat. “The chantry, Anders.”

“I know.” Anders was resigned. He would have to answer for himself for the rest of his life.

She gave him a slow look. He’d heard it all before. In her heart of hearts she was a reformer, not a radical, but opportunities like this came once in a score of lifetimes. “Let’s move forward.”

* * *

Hawke went one last time to the river, to rinse out a few diaper cloths and hang them to dry. The lantern was extinguished in the Warden’s tent, and Hawke heard giggling and murmuring from inside. Hawke smiled softly, not embarrassed, and re-joined his family.

They’d be setting off early tomorrow. Hawke sat cross-legged and grabbed Anders’s boots. One of the laces had broken just before they found the Warden’s camp, and now Hawke started drawing the broken string out of the eyelets. He had spares somewhere...

As his fingers worked, he stared at the man stretched out on the blankets beside him. Anders was asleep, with Malcolm on his chest. Malcolm was still awake, and now he lifted his head experimentally -- getting his bearings in the world. Hawke grinned at the unpracticed, shaky motions as Malcolm looked around. It was hard work, and he quickly buried his head again beneath Anders’s chin. He watched Hawke with infant-enormous eyes.

Hawke felt the golden chains anchoring them together, and he looked at Anders and understood. Better than he wanted to admit to himself, he understood. Anders had struck with vengeance, with the fury of every family torn apart, every parent who had lost, every frightened child dragged off in chains, every mage who was murdered and yet went on living. Hawke had been told -- but never really believed -- that Bethany could be taken away. It was the sort of disbelief that few could afford. His parents had gone to such lengths, worked and worried so that their children didn’t have to.

But now, as a lover... a father... he knew firsthand. He shared Anders’s nightmares. And he understood that Anders had wanted to strike the core of those fears, explode them, slaughter the terrors and injustices that had dismembered countless lives.

Suffering reverberated outward from the blow, but the waves would attenuate, better days would come.

Malcolm’s eyes were closing, and he pulled his fingers up, clumsily pressing at his face. Anders felt Malcolm settle, always aware even asleep, and his hand came up to steady him.

Hawke had chosen, long ago, to love him. Commit himself, consign everything he was to Anders, and now to their son. Commitment was as much choice as instinct. His parents hadn’t always had an easy time of it. For most of their years together, they had been poor and afraid... but they had loved one another, and Hawke modeled his life in their honor. The hard times, from their example, were the times he needed to love most.

Malcolm had fallen asleep and Anders was cradling him. They both looked at peace. If it never got easy, Hawke could handle that.

Year Sixteen (9:46)

The Anderfels were almost as bleak in fact as reputation. There were steppes verdant with hardy, thick grasses, jutting crags, steep fields, and fast rivers, all wildly tangled under a broad azure sky. Farms and villages were scratched onto the hollow landscape, and people clung tenuously to existence beneath the haunting cries of eagles.

The Warden-Commander took a place at Weisshaupt, a fortress of cosmopolitanism in the wild and base Anderfels. It was hard to catch the First Warden’s eye. Politics was a time-consuming, ruthless affair, though the Hero of Ferelden had more political bank than most, and she set about the business of arguing their case.

Anders, once again, was living in uneasy league with his ‘kin’. Hundreds of other Grey Wardens roamed Weisshaupt’s halls. The constant hum of their presence would have driven him mad, if Hawke’s proximity didn’t sometimes drown it out. At least the libraries were deep. They were as ancient as the libraries in the Circle, and open to his curiosity.

Hawke was still the centerpiece of the ex-templars’ resistance movement, if distant. He journeyed back to the Free Marches, sometimes to Nevarra, showing his face among the troops. Anders, too, sometimes made the few months’ journey, but the revolution had passed well out of his hands, taken on its own energy. Fate was anointing her own heroes, fielding playing pieces that far overshadowed him.

He didn’t really mind. He had things to do. Like raise their son.

He and Hawke had comfortable quarters full of old, heavy furniture, in the same wing as the Hero of Ferelden. They were, ostensibly, part of her retinue. Malcolm slept in the next room, connected by a door, usually left open in case he needed them in the night.

As tonight. A frightened shriek, which brought both Anders and Hawke instantly awake, and Malcolm running to their bed. Hawke took the scared little boy in his arms, and Anders, on his feet, dispelled the flames with a quick flash of his hands. He took the shade off the lantern and went to investigate.

It was Malcolm’s favorite stuffed animal, lying on the floor beside his bed, now little more than a sooty, half-consumed bundle of rags. He picked it up.

Malcolm was hiding in Hawke’s embrace. “I didn’t mean to hurt Mr. Bear.”

Anders turned the remains over in his hands. “I know you didn’t mean to. That’s why we have to be very careful with magic. It’s not a toy. We could hurt someone.”

“I didn’t _mean_ to.”

“I know you didn’t,” Anders repeated, gently. The boy had no idea how he had done it. He had probably been half asleep.

Malcolm was silent for a moment, but he had trouble weighing on his little heart. “One of the women said it was bad.”

“That what was bad?” Hawke asked. He was stroking Malcolm's dark hair, holding the small, willowy boy close.

Malcolm said, voice very small, “Magic.”

He looked to his parents for assurance. No matter how carefully they spoke of people who believed such things, it was a child’s instinct, on hearing something contrary, to wonder and worry.

“Who said that?” Anders asked brusquely. The Anderfels were full of people still bowing and scraping to Andraste. Anders had dragged her from her plinth long ago, but in this backwards scrap of Creation...

Hawke felt the tension in their child, and hugged him close. He shook his head quickly at Anders. Now wasn’t the time for his anger. Hawke lifted Malcolm a bit higher, ducking to see his eyes, his eyes and the rest of his thin features so like Anders's, to make sure Malcolm heard him clearly. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Anders let Hawke comfort him, explain again what they had always taught him, while Anders tried to smother the flicker of fury. They had fought for physical safety, but you couldn’t change holy doctrine, heart-held beliefs, by the sword. Not unless you were prepared to massacre.

That was why they were pushing so hard for a proclamation from the Divine. But minds didn’t change overnight -- and there would always be those, no matter what the Divine proclaimed, who would see it as an edict made under duress. A betrayal of the Maker’s truth, kowtowing to sinners holding the world hostage.

Time, though. Time was change, and they had set things on course for the better. If some held on to the idea that magic was sin until the end of all things, so be it. Let them think what they would, live with poisoned hearts. As long as they didn’t wield the terrible power of the Chantry as it had been.

Anders examined the ruined toy, and thought on the future. Finally, sure proof. Malcolm had been showing signs for months now. Intense dreams, quick glances at what those without a sensitivity to the Fade would swear was nothing. He and Hawke had talked it over and prepared. It was still frightening, brought personal ghosts out of their dark corners, but Anders looked at his family. Hawke was speaking quietly to their son, whose tears were drying.

“Dad will teach you some fun things, I bet,” Hawke said. He smiled over the top of Malcolm’s head at Anders, and Malcolm looked to him, too.

“I’ll teach you a lot of things,” Anders promised. They had better start tomorrow.

Malcolm was smiling, now. He had all but forgotten his fears.

Malcolm joined them in their bed, and Hawke left him and Anders snuggled up. He left their rooms and went to Anders’s small office to find a few books. He used to sit and watch some of Bethany’s lessons, fascinated. Time for a refresher course.

When he returned to their room, the Hero of Ferelden was in the hall. “I heard some commotion earlier.”

Hawke shifted the stack of books he was holding. “Everything’s fine. Just... bad dreams.”

“Is he manifesting?”

There was no reason to lie. “Yes. Scared himself silly. Anders is with him.”

She smiled. “Congratulations.”

This stronghold was a hundred miles from the nearest organized, holdout Chantry forces. It had thick walls. A drawbridge. They were among a number of people who _understood_ , and wanted the same things they did. This was the best place for them to be. “Thank you.”

The Hero of Ferelden kept an eye on her own. “Given any thought to that kitten he wanted? One of the mousers in the granary has a new litter.”

Malcolm had been pestering. He wanted a cat, desperately. He was Anders’s child through and through.

Hawke grinned. “What if he sets it on fire?” He was joking. Mostly.

“You’re horrible. The boy’s too sweet. Think about it, Hawke. We should celebrate.”

“Hm?” Anders stepped out of their room and guided the heavy oaken door closed behind him.

Hawke waved a book at the Warden. “She thinks Malcolm needs a present.”

“There’s a litter in the granary. Tabbies,” the Warden added temptingly.

Anders’s eyes sparkled. “Well -”

“Oh, by the Void. All right.” Hawke knew when he was boxed in. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Sleeping. Tomorrow, I’ll see what he can do.”

Anders nodded to their bedroom door, and the Hero of Ferelden bid them good-night.

Just the two of them in the quiet hall among the burning torches. Hawke pulled Anders close. “Here we go, huh?”

Their son was a mage. But not an apostate. That was Anders’s hard-won victory. It wasn’t yet the best of all possible worlds, but light was breaking on their black sky. Thedas was still reeling, the aftershocks of spasms as the old order suffocated, but each year brought more summits under white flags. Demands and counter-demands were being haggled over, but more ink than blood spilled, now. The threat of violence, a return to chaos, was still fresh and raw enough to keep everyone at the negotiating table, and Anders was starting to believe that he would live to see a lasting compromise, a way they could all go forward in peace.

All of that was focused, intensified, through the lens of the child sleeping in their room. Anders nuzzled Hawke's shoulder. “He’s manifesting early. He must have potential.”

“You’ll show him the way.”

Anders smiled briefly, opened the door, and waved Hawke inside. “Back to sleep,” he ordered. Busy days ahead.

Hawke grabbed his fingers, as he had done so long ago, and pulled him toward their bed.


End file.
